Of Dreams and Awakenings
by Sparks
Summary: Isabelle French is working towards normal. She's working towards being brave. She's working towards knowing who she is.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Of Dreams and Awakenings

Rating: T

Word count: ~51k

Characters: Belle/Isabelle French, Mr Gold/Rumplestiltskin, Mary Margaret, Emma Swan, Archie Hopper, Henry Mills, Regina Mills, Moe French, various other Storybrooke characters.

Pairing: Belle/Rumplstiltskin (Isabelle/Mr Gold)

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Once Upon A Time' does not belong to me.

Notes: I started this before the whole arc with Kathryn, Mary Margaret and David kicked off, so I've completely disregarded that in here. Imagine it's set some time in the future, and pay no attention to the season finale once that's aired!

Summary: Isabelle French is working towards normal. She's working towards being brave. She's working towards knowing who she is.

* * *

"So what are you going to do now?" Archie asks her, smiling, and Isabelle frowns faintly. "You're doing much better with daily life," he says. "And you said the nightmares aren't as frequent. I think the best thing for you now is to get back to a normal life."

"Normal," Isabelle repeats, thoughtful. "I was in that ward for so long I'm not sure I remember what normal is." Ten years in the ward, and she's been out for two months. Nine weeks and four days, to be precise, since Sheriff Swan came into her cell, Archie Hopper in tow, and told her she could leave.

Leave, but not entirely free. The conditions of Isabelle's release were that she is under the Sheriff's supervision – a condition easily satisfied by the offer of a room in the apartment Emma shares with Mary Margaret – and that she meets with Archie twice a week until Archie is satisfied that she poses no danger either to herself or those around her.

Nine weeks later, Isabelle is finally beginning to feel comfortable around people again. For ten long years she's had little contact with anybody except nurses and orderlies, and occasional visits from doctors or the Mayor. When she'd first left the closed ward, every loud noise had startled her, and when Emma or Mary Margaret brushed past her in the apartment, she had spooked and retreated to her room for long hours. It was normal, Archie had told her, to feel the way she did.

Just as it is normal for her to loathe the father who helped the Mayor have her committed and never bothered to see how she was doing.

"You're making a good start," Archie reassures her now. "You're still getting along well with your roommates?" Isabelle nods. "Well, have a look around town. I'm sure there's some vacancies that would suit you. I really think you've reached the point where you need more social contact, Isabelle."

"I…I'm still not…comfortable with that," Isabelle has to admit. "I'm getting better at being around Emma and Mary Margaret. And Henry, of course." She smiles. Henry is a lovely boy, bright and vivacious, and unlike everyone else, does not treat her as if she is…different. He is, perhaps, the only person to make her feel comfortable.

"Do you think you'll get any more comfortable if you don't try?" Archie asks gently. "I guess what I'm saying is, there comes a point where we need to push beyond the comfort zone."

"I guess," Isabelle mutters. "I could start looking for vacancies in the paper. I do hate that my dad pays the rent." It's a sore point, but she's not been in any position to challenge it. The rent is paid every month, on time and in full. Isabelle hates it, hates being dependant on the man who sent her to that place and left her there to rot.

"What sort of work do you think you might like?" Archie asks, encouraging her, but Isabelle shrugs. She doesn't know, hasn't thought. She hadn't been old enough to have a proper job before she was committed, so she has no experience. She isn't sure anyone will be willing to give her a job – it's a small town, and gossip travels fast. Everybody knows where she's been, what happened to her.

"I like books," she says at last. "But the library's been shut up for years."

"Yes, apparently there's a lack of funds," says Archie, frowning for a moment. "But still, that's a good start. Why don't you think about it over the next few days? Maybe Emma and Mary Margaret can help you come up with some ideas."

"Alright," says Isabelle.

"Now, I spoke with the judge," Archie goes on, "and he's agreed to accept my assessment that you don't need to see me so often." Isabelle is alarmed, a little, but Archie is reassuring. "So we're going to cut down to every week," he says. "But you can always call me, or stop by. Does that feel alright to you?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I guess." She certainly doesn't think she's ill enough to need to be seen twice a week, but it's strange to be changing her schedule. But then, she thinks, that's the kind of thing Archie was talking about – stepping outside her comfort zone. She can't know if she never tries. "So…I guess I'll see you next week?"

"But call if you need to," he reminds her. "And have a think about finding some work. But don't feel under any pressure. You need to find something you're happy with."

Isabelle nods, stands up and picks up her bag. "Okay," she says. "Thanks, Dr Hopper."

"Archie," he corrects, as he always does. He rises, goes to open the door for her. "I'll see you next week, Isabelle."

She leaves his office, goes down the hallway, opens the front door and pauses for a moment to let her eyes adjust to the bright sunshine. Spring is in the air, the breeze warm and flowers beginning to show their colours, and Isabelle stands for a moment and drinks it in.

She decides on a different route home today, past the clock tower and the boarded up library beneath it. Normally she sticks to the same routes, keeps her head down and hurries to her destination, but Archie isn't the only one who's suggested she needs to try new things. Emma's been pushing her to stop by Granny's, or to come visit her at the Sheriff's office, or any one of a hundred other things that so far Isabelle has been too…frightened to do.

Frightened, and Isabelle hates herself for it. But Archie's trying to help her understand it's not a bad thing, to be afraid. She's been shut up for so long that of course she's afraid of lots of things that other people take for granted.

So she takes a different route today, although she keeps her head down and her hands in her pockets until she reaches the clock tower. Lack of funds, Archie had said, and she feels _angry_ about that. Angry that the town is denied a library because it isn't deemed important, because somebody has decided that having a library isn't required for Storybrooke.

Anger is healthy, she reminds herself. Anger is natural. It needs to be channelled properly, but it's a perfectly normal, healthy reaction to be having.

"Miss French?"

Isabelle jumps, whirls around to see who has spoken to her, clutches the strap of her bag. "Yes," she says, uncertain as she looks at the man standing a few feet away from her. Slender, elegant, leaning on a gold-capped cane. Handsome, she thinks, and is a little surprised at herself for noticing it. She thinks she knows him, but can't quite place him, can't put a name to the face that seems, somehow, familiar.

"Sorry for startling you," he says, and there's a strange look on his face.

"That's – that's fine," Isabelle manages. She'd never been shy as a child, but ten years of cold walls and little conversation have changed her. "I'm sorry, do I know you?"

A flash of something in his eyes – anger, she thinks, and regret, and can't understand either – but he shakes his head.

"No," he says. "We've not been introduced. I'm Mr Gold."

Ah, Isabelle thinks, the infamous Mr Gold. She's heard about him, from Emma and Mary Margaret. The man who runs the town, the man who owns practically everything and has deals with everyone. She's met Ashley, knows about the girl's dealings with this man, how he would have taken advantage of her desperation, taken her baby from her.

She knows, too, that this is the man who put her father in the hospital. But she can't hate him for that, not when she…

Besides, if he hadn't done that, Emma Swan would never have started digging into the _why_ of it, would never have found that Isabelle was being held barely legally in the secure unit of the hospital. A chain of events, starting with Moe French unable to make his payments and leading to this moment now.

Dangerous, she's been told. A very dangerous man, and she should stay away from him. And yet there's something about him that doesn't _seem_ dangerous.

"You seem to know who I am," she says at last, clutches her bag and drops her gaze. "I guess everyone does."

"Perhaps," he says. "How are you getting on, Miss French?"

Everyone asks her that – everyone except Henry, she corrects herself. It's a boring question, one she's never sure how to answer. To speak the truth, or to lie. People want to hear the lies, want the comfortable, happy ending. The truth…

The truth is more complicated. And it's only been nine weeks; even Archie, full of praise for how well she's doing, knows there's still a long way to go.

"Forgive me," Mr Gold says, mouth quirked upwards in a faint smile. "I'm sure you get asked that a lot."

"Yes," Isabelle says, tries to find a smile. It feels awkward on her face, using muscles she hardly ever seems to use. Smiling isn't easy, not the way it was when she was a child. "I, uh…I was just looking at the library," she says, gesturing to the boarded up building. "It's such a shame there's no money for it."

"Oh, there's plenty of funding," Mr Gold disagrees, stepping closer. His gaze remains on her; he doesn't so much as glance at the building. "But the Mayor has never put a high priority on it."

"Why not?" Isabelle demands, frowning. "Reading is…it's important. And somebody could do a lot with the building, it's lovely, and such a good location." Right in the centre of town, everybody would pass it sooner or later. She thinks, for a moment, of how bright and cheerful it could be. There could be a reading group, and children's sessions with volunteers to come and tell stories to the children.

"You sound very passionate about it," says Mr Gold, and she glances at him, feels her cheeks heat. He lifts one eyebrow slightly, shrugs his shoulders. "Well, I'd suggest speaking to the Mayor about it, but…"

Isabelle shivers. She has avoided the Mayor completely since being freed. She knows what part Regina Mills played in keeping her locked up without psychiatric assessment. She remembers the visits, the cool stare through the slot in the door. And she's heard things from Emma, from Mary Margaret, that make her shudder to think of them.

Regina Mills is even more dangerous than Mr Gold, she thinks. She just covers it with lipstick and a smile, while Mr Gold…

But he's hiding too, she thinks as she looks at him. Somehow, he's hiding.

"No," he says softly then. "No, if I were you, dear, I'd stay far away from her." He seems…understanding, compassionate. From other people, she might think it was false. After all, how could anyone understand how she is feeling, what she is thinking? But somehow Mr Gold's compassion seems real. Genuine. His warning is heartfelt. She nods, looks at him thoughtfully.

"I'd better be going," she says then. "It was nice to meet you."

"And you, Miss French," says Mr Gold, and he bows his head as she turns to go. "Perhaps I'll see you again," he adds, and this time Isabelle's startled smile comes easier.

"Yes," she says. "Have a good day, Mr Gold."

"Thank you, Miss French," he says, and there's that strange look on his face again, the expression she can't decipher. "I believe I will."

* * *

26 chapters all written, a new one will be posted every evening.


	2. Chapter 2

Title: Of Dreams and Awakenings

Rating: T

Word count: ~51k

Characters: Belle/Isabelle French, Mr Gold/Rumplestiltskin, Mary Margaret, Emma Swan, Archie Hopper, Henry Mills, Regina Mills, Moe French, various other Storybrooke characters.

Pairing: Belle/Rumplstiltskin (Isabelle/Mr Gold)

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Once Upon A Time' does not belong to me.

* * *

"The Mayor's opening up the library," Emma announces at supper one day. Isabelle glances up from her food, eyes wide. Mary Margaret is just as shocked.

"Really?" she says. "The library's been shut for _years_. I can barely remember it being closed." She frowns, thoughtful. "It's odd, really. The town's definitely big enough to need one."

"Who knows why Regina does what she does?" says Emma, with an expressive roll of her eyes. "She made the announcement this afternoon. Apparently she's getting contractors in to gut the building and start over from scratch."

"Well, she never does anything by halves," says Mary Margaret.

"Does – does she have a librarian yet?" Isabelle asks, and her two friends exchange a glance. Isabelle forces herself to shrug, lowers her gaze. "Dr Hopper and I have been talking," she says. "He wants me to think about getting a job. You know, so I keep working on getting back to normal." It's been three days since Archie suggested it, but she's not brought the topic up with Emma or Mary Margaret yet. It's taken her this long to get used to even the idea of pushing herself in that way.

"That…sounds great," says Emma slowly. "But...you can barely manage to walk past a busy store, let alone –"

"Emma," hisses Mary Margaret, and she turns a wide smile on Isabelle. "I think it's a great idea," she says. "You know so much about books, and you love reading. It's always good to be working at something you love."

"Yeah," says Isabelle, and she tries to smile back at her friend. "And…I mean, it'd be quiet. Not like working in a store."

"Exactly," says Mary Margaret. "I think it would really suit you, actually."

"There's just one problem," Emma points out then. "Regina." Isabelle's smile fades at once, and she shivers. Emma is sympathetic, reaches across the table and squeezes her hand. "She's the Mayor," she reminds Isabelle. "She's the one who'll decide who gets hired."

Isabelle nods, shivers again, feels that momentary burst of happiness falling away like sand through her fingers. There is no way Regina Mills will ever hire her, she thinks. There isn't even any point in applying – because even if the Mayor does allow her an interview, Isabelle doesn't think she's brave enough to face her.

"She can't do anything to you," Emma reminds her. "Legally she doesn't have a leg to stand on and she knows it. If she tries anything, we've got Archie on our side."

"Legalities didn't stop her last time," Isabelle snaps. Emma pulls back a little, stung, and Isabelle lowers her head. "Sorry," she whispers. "I just…she…"

"Don't apologise," Mary Margaret says. "You're right. Legalities didn't stop her. But things are different now." Isabelle nods slowly. Yes, things are different now, but that doesn't stop her being afraid.

Nine weeks can't erase ten years. Isabelle thinks she'll be afraid for the rest of her life, although Archie assures her that eventually the fear will fade. Eventually she will be able to walk past the hospital. Eventually.

"What objections could Regina have?" Mary Margaret asks then, trying for optimistic and not quite achieving it. "Isabelle's not crazy, no matter what the Mayor wants to think. She's not got a criminal record." She turns to Isabelle. "We could help you with the application, at least." She smiles softly. "If you don't try, you'll never know."

"I suppose," Isabelle whispers. "But even if the application is accepted, I'd still have to have an interview, right?"

"One step at a time," Emma advises. "I'll swing by her office tomorrow and pick up the form for you."

"Thanks," says Isabelle, trying to push away the fear. She picks up her fork, realises she isn't hungry now, puts it down again. "I think I might go for a walk," she decides. "I'm really not hungry."

"Isabelle, you have to eat," Mary Margaret says, the rebuke softened by her obvious worry. Isabelle knows why; knows she isn't really eating enough. It's hard, though. For so long she ate what she was given, when she was given it. It's hard to remember to be hungry, hard to have the freedom to eat what she wants, when she wants it.

She thinks Archie is a little worried about it. She knows she's lost weight since coming out of the hospital. The clothes Emma and Mary Margaret bought her have become loose; she needs a belt to hold her jeans up.

"I'm really not hungry," she claims, and it's true. "I'll have something later."

"Are you sure you want to go for a walk?" Emma asks then, and she's worried too, but for a different reason. "It's going to be dark soon."

Isabelle manages a smile, genuine and heartfelt. Her friends have known her for such a short time, but they care so much.

"Dr Hopper wants me to step out of my comfort zone," she says. "I won't go far. But it's such a nice evening."

She collects a jacket from her room, feels her friends watching her as she leaves the apartment. There's some part of her that feels a little stifled by it, but it's a new feeling, and she revels in it – in the idea that she wants more freedom, and in the fact that they watch because they care, rather than because they think she's dangerous.

The air is warm, fragrant, and Isabelle wanders along the streets slowly, keeps her head up and tries to let go of her anxiety. She tries to dwell on the enjoyment of the evening, rather than the worry about who she might meet.

Her feet lead her towards Granny's, and she stands on the pavement, looks at the café. The bright lights, the laughing people inside. Not today, she thinks. But some day.

"Miss French. What a surprise to see you out and about."

Shivers running down her spine, panic drying out her mouth, Isabelle turns to see Mayor Mills, trailed by her son Henry. He's holding an ice cream, concentrating more on that than on anything else. An evening treat, Isabelle judges, although the idea of Regina Mills doing anything nice for anybody is hard to grasp.

"How are you feeling?" the Mayor asks, all politeness and concern on the surface and barbed wire hidden beneath. Isabelle can't speak, can't summon the bravery to combat this woman. Henry has stopped eating his ice cream, is watching her with wide eyes. He knows she's afraid of his mother. "Aren't you going to answer me, dear?" the Mayor quizzes. "I see Dr Hopper has been exaggerating your progress a little."

"Regina," comes a voice from behind Isabelle. "What a pleasant surprise. And young Henry." Isabelle turns, finds Mr Gold standing just behind her, leaning on his cane and something vicious hidden behind his eyes as he looks at Regina. Something dangerous. And yet, standing between the two most dangerous people in Storybrooke, Isabelle knows which one she would choose.

"Mr Gold," says the Mayor, a sour note in her voice. "You're not usually around at this hour."

"Well, Miss French and I are going to have a cup of coffee," he says, smooth as silk, and he glances at Isabelle briefly. She doesn't protest, doesn't argue with him – she thinks she'd agree to _anything_ if it means she doesn't have to speak to Regina. "Sorry I'm late," he says to her, building the deceit. "I hope you haven't been waiting long."

"No," Isabelle manages, clears her throat, shakes her head. "No, not long."

"Mom, can I have another ice cream?" Henry chimes in then, and Regina's attention is distracted; she frowns down at her son.

"Of course not," she snaps. "Don't push your luck, Henry. Come on, it's nearly your bedtime." She takes his hand, almost drags him away; Henry glances back at her, gives her a wide grin, and Isabelle nods her thanks. Then she turns to Mr Gold, finds him watching her.

"Thank you," she says.

"Not a problem," he says, and amusement lingers in the corners of his face, but not directed at her. There's enmity between him and the Mayor, Isabelle knows, and she thinks he'll take any opportunity to thwart her. "Believe me," he continues, confirming her thoughts, "I'm quite happy to interfere with anything Regina wants to meddle with." He smiles, and Isabelle finds herself smiling back. She's not sure what it is about this man, but he makes her feel comfortable in a way only Henry has managed so far.

"I wish I knew what she wants with me," she says, almost without realising it. Mr Gold tilts his head enquiringly, silent encouragement for her to continue. Isabelle shrugs, drops her gaze. "I guess you know she was the reason I got…"

"Locked up?" he suggests. Not committed, not institutionalised – which is what everyone else says, or doesn't say. Locked up.

It's the truth; she was locked up. And Isabelle has no idea why, no idea what she'd done to the Mayor to deserve it.

She was seventeen when her father allowed Regina Mills to lock her up. She's twenty-seven now. Ten years of her life, wasted and lost, and _she doesn't know why_.

"Yes," she says tightly. "Locked up." Mr Gold nods, looks at her for a moment longer and then nods his head at the café.

"The invitation stands," he says. "Coffee?"

Isabelle hesitates, puts her hands in her pocket to keep from fidgeting. "I shouldn't have caffeine this late," she says. Mr Gold nods, looks almost resigned, as if he'd expected the refusal. Isabelle glances at the café, thinks about stepping outside her comfort zone. Thinks about all the people in there, the bright lights and the stares she will inevitably attract.

Looks back at Mr Gold, thinks about the expression on his face as he'd saved her from Regina.

"But…something else, maybe?" she says slowly, hesitantly, and Mr Gold nods, smiles just a little.

"I'm told Granny's hot chocolate is excellent," he says. "And perhaps a slice of cake?" He looks her over, lips pursed together for a moment, and Isabelle is suddenly acutely aware of how thin she has become.

"Yes," she says. "I'd like that."

"Lead the way, then," he says, holding out a hand in invitation. Isabelle seizes her courage and walks into the café, Mr Gold at her back.


	3. Chapter 3

Title: Of Dreams and Awakenings

Rating: T

Word count: ~51k

Characters: Belle/Isabelle French, Mr Gold/Rumplestiltskin, Mary Margaret, Emma Swan, Archie Hopper, Henry Mills, Regina Mills, Moe French, various other Storybrooke characters.

Pairing: Belle/Rumplstiltskin (Isabelle/Mr Gold)

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Once Upon A Time' does not belong to me.

* * *

"Everyone's staring," Isabelle mutters, shrinking into the corner, lifting hands to her hot cheeks. Granny had put her in a corner booth, lifted an eyebrow at her choice of companion, but taken their orders without comment. A corner booth, so there's nobody at her back and she can see everyone in the café.

"Of course they are," says Mr Gold mildly. "I rarely come in here, and I never have such a lovely companion with me." Isabelle's flush deepens, and she catches a hint of a smirk on Mr Gold's face. "Ignore them," he advises. "It's what I do."

"I…yeah, that's what I should do," Isabelle says, dropping her hands into her lap. "I, um…I haven't been in here since…"

"Quite understandable."

"It's just…it's so bright," Isabelle tries to explain. "And there's so many people." Mr Gold nods, doesn't say anything – doesn't try to comfort, or offer false platitudes. Like Henry, he seems to simply accept her foibles and peculiarities.

She glances beyond him, at the rest of the café. Some people are still staring at her, but some have lost interest. Ruby is leaning against the counter, openly watching until Isabelle meets her gaze. Then she turns away, busies herself cleaning the counter. Isabelle glances back at Mr Gold, finds him watching her, his amusement evident.

"You're braver than you think you are," he says.

"You don't know me," she says, and he shrugs. Isabelle frowns at him, leans forward a little. "Why did you stop the Mayor?" she asks then. "You _don't_ know me. Why would you do that for someone you don't know?"

"As I said, I'm never averse to sticking a spanner in her works," says Mr Gold mildly. "Shall we leave it at that?" Isabelle's mouth twists, discontented with his answer, and there's approval on his face for a moment. "Very well. Perhaps I'm simply interested."

"Because I'm a –"

"Because," he interrupts her, "you seem a charming young woman, and I believe a great disservice has been done to you." Isabelle is silent, watches him. There's something hidden behind his eyes, something…

She puts her hands flat on the table, tilts her head as she looks at him.

"You beat up my father," she says, and there's a barely perceptible flinch at that. He doesn't look guilty or ashamed, not exactly, but there's something else there. Satisfaction, she thinks, and shivers.

"Yes," he says plainly. He doesn't lie, doesn't obfuscate. She appreciates that. The truth, plain and unvarnished.

"Good," she says, low and fierce, and she's surprised him, she can see. His eyes widen slightly, he stares at her as if he's not sure what to think, and Isabelle lifts her chin, defiant. "He helped her," she says. Mr Gold nods, slow and thoughtful, and begins to speak. But Granny comes bustling up then, puts their drinks down before them.

"Two hot chocolates," she says. "I'll just get your cake."

"Thank you," Isabelle murmurs, and she holds the cup in her hands, lets the heat warm her. She is aware of his gaze, aware of how closely he is watching her. Strangely, it does not upset her the way it does when others watch her.

She lifts the cup to her mouth, sips cautiously. Cream and chocolate, a little too hot to drink, scalding her tongue, but it tastes good, and she smiles.

"This is nice," she decides. "Nicer than I thought." He's amused, sips his own drink and watches her. "That came out wrong," Isabelle says, apologetic. "I meant…"

"I understand," he says, and she thinks perhaps he _does_ understand. She's not sure why, but this man seems to know without needing to be told all the things that are inside her head and her heart. The reasons why she's kept away from bright lights and crowded spaces.

The marks that long captivity has left on her.

She is puzzled, tilts her head to one side and looks at him. "I don't get it," she says. "I don't understand why you're here having hot chocolate with me. It doesn't make sense."

"Why?" he inquires. "Because of the things you've been told about me? All true, I assure you." He grins, bared teeth and danger, but it doesn't repel her. "Perhaps you intrigue me, Miss French." The grins disappears as quickly as it appeared, and Isabelle leans back as Granny approaches.

"Here's your cake," she says. "Enjoy." She glances at Mr Gold and her mouth tightens slightly; disapproval, Isabelle judges. But she doesn't comment, turns back to Isabelle and gives her a smile before leaving.

Isabelle sips her hot chocolate, watches Mr Gold watching her. She's trying to piece him together, this well-dressed man who put her father in the hospital and has his fingers in every possible pie. She can't understand why he's interested, why he intervened for her with the Mayor. Why he's brought her into Granny's and bought her hot chocolate and a slice of fruitcake.

Why she agreed to it, when Emma's been trying to get her in here for weeks. Why is she comfortable here with him, but not with her friends?

"Deep thoughts, Miss French?"

"Confusing thoughts," she corrects him with a sigh, and picks up her fork. "I just don't understand why you're being so nice to me."

"Do you have to understand?" he asks, and Isabelle shakes her head, frowns slightly.

"I guess not," she concedes. "But I don't like things that confuse me. I spent so long feeling confused because of the drugs. I want things to make sense now."

"Now, Miss French, you know life's not that simple," he says, a gentle rebuke. Isabelle purses her lips, unhappy with the answer but knowing he's right. She concedes, however – brings a forkful of cake to her mouth and is surprised by how good it tastes. Food hasn't really tasted right in a while, she thinks, but this is moist and rich, and she hesitates only a moment before taking another bite.

The door of the café opens then, admitting Emma, and Isabelle drops her fork, lowers her gaze as Emma hurries towards her.

"Hey," she says, aiming for light but not hiding her concern. "You've been gone a while. We were getting worried." Emma glances at Mr Gold, lifts an eyebrow. "I see you found company," she says.

"Yes," murmurs Isabelle. "Yes, I…" She trails off, shrugs her shoulders, feels both Emma and Mr Gold watching her – and others too. Emma's arrival has rekindled their interest.

"Sheriff Swan," says Mr Gold at last, a terse greeting. The dislike, Isabelle thinks, is mutual.

"Mr Gold," says Emma, cool. "Isabelle, are you okay?" Isabelle's not sure whether the concern is for how long she's been out, and where she's been found, or for who Emma has found her with. But she can't chafe at the concern, won't allow herself to let it upset her. Emma is her friend, has been so kind and caring.

And Mr Gold is dangerous, she reminds herself. He's cold and calculating and…

Resigned, she realises as she glances at him. He expects her to leave with Emma, to shun him because he knows Emma's opinion of him – knows what _everyone_ thinks of him. She wonders why it should matter to him, why _she_ should matter. Yet it's clear she does.

"I'm fine," she says at last. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to worry you. Or to be out this long." She doesn't move, although she knows Emma expects her to get up, to hurry home. An hour ago, she would have; but an hour ago she would never have stepped foot in Granny's. Something has changed, but she doesn't know what or how.

"I won't be long," she says to Emma. "I'm going to finish my cake before I come."

Emma glances at Mr Gold again, mouth twisted in a scowl. "Are you sure?" she presses. "Isabelle, you know who this is, right? What he did to your –"

"I'm not crazy," Isabelle interrupts her. "And I'm not stupid."

"I didn't mean…" Emma falters, seems to realise how she sounded to Isabelle. "Alright," she says after a long moment. "You're right. I'm sorry. I'll see you back at the apartment." She meets Mr Gold's gaze and something seems to pass between them, something icy and full of warning, but Isabelle isn't sure who's warning who. There's too much she doesn't understand, history between them that Emma hasn't told her.

All true, he'd said. Everything she's heard about him is true.

Emma leaves, and Isabelle looks across the table at Mr Gold.

"Interesting," he says, and smiles faintly as he drinks his hot chocolate.

"What is?" she asks. There are whispers in the café; she's caused a stir. She hates it, and yet she didn't want to leave just yet. She is, she finds, _enjoying_ herself. She didn't expect to be able to do that in public, not yet. Not until the gossip has faded and the fear has become a little more of a memory.

"You are," he says, honest except not – there's a lie wrapped up in his words somewhere, she feels, but can't put her finger on it. "Did you hear," he says then, changing the subject, "that the Mayor has decided to open the library?"

"Yes, Emma told me," says Isabelle, pushing away the embarrassment and the confusion, focusing on the bright bubble of happiness she'd felt when Emma had told her only a short while ago. "But – well, the Mayor will be appointing the librarian, won't she?"

"The town council has a say," says Mr Gold, and there's something mischievous hidden just beneath the surface. "It's true she generally has the final word. But not always."

Isabelle frowns faintly, stares at him. "Did you – did you ask her to open it?" she asks slowly. "Mary Margaret says she can't remember the library ever being open, and the other day…"

"Yes, Miss French?" he says, and Isabelle wonders once again why he's so interested. "The other day?"

"Did you ask her?" Isabelle repeats, voice soft and almost lost in the general noise of the café. Mr Gold says nothing, looks at her with a carefully blank expression, and Isabelle feels afraid, just for a moment. Ice down her back, and she drops her eyes, finishes her slice of cake. She doesn't understand this man, doesn't know why he's interested in her, because he clearly _is_ interested.

And she is interested in him; there's a fluttering in her stomach as he looks at her, a prickling of her skin. She hasn't felt this in over ten years, hasn't been attracted to _anyone_. But she's attracted to him, and it scares her.

"I'd better go," she says then. "Thank you for the cake, and the drink."

"My pleasure, Miss French," he says, and rises as she does. "Perhaps we'll see each other again some time."

It sounds like a promise, and Isabelle flees the café, aware of everyone watching her. It sounds like a promise, and she's not sure what she's feeling.


	4. Chapter 4

Title: Of Dreams and Awakenings

Rating: T

Word count: ~51k

Characters: Belle/Isabelle French, Mr Gold/Rumplestiltskin, Mary Margaret, Emma Swan, Archie Hopper, Henry Mills, Regina Mills, Moe French, various other Storybrooke characters.

Pairing: Belle/Rumplstiltskin (Isabelle/Mr Gold)

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Once Upon A Time' does not belong to me.

* * *

She fidgets, twisting her hands together, head bowed and eyes lowered. She feels safe, here in Archie's office, but there's a barb to the safety. She has to unwrap herself here, has to explain things and talk about things, and sometimes she doesn't want to do that.

Sometimes she just wants to let things be.

But she can't put off her therapy sessions, and Archie is generally sensitive, knows when to push and when to leave her to her own thoughts.

"Okay," he says, "let's forget about that for a while. Why don't you tell me what you've been doing since last week?"

Isabelle nods slowly, lifts her head to glance at him. "Not much," she has to admit. "Uh…I cleaned the bathroom. Cooked supper, a couple of times. I even managed not to burn it." Archie smiles, and Isabelle tries to smile back. "Henry and I went for a walk," she offers then. "He showed me his favourite places. It was nice."

"Good," says Archie, approving. He likes it when she goes out, even if it's just with Henry, even if it's just a walk around the town. He knows, just as Isabelle does, that Regina disapproves; still, Henry seems to do a lot that the Mayor doesn't approve of, and nothing's stopped him so far.

"The library's being reopened," says Isabelle then. She thinks, briefly, about Mr Gold. She hasn't seen him since that evening in Granny's café, four days ago now. She's barely left the apartment since then, truth be told, and she can admit to herself, at least, that it's partly because she's not sure what she's going to do when she does see him again.

"Yes, I heard that," says Archie. "I hear they're looking for a librarian, as well. Have you thought about applying?"

"Yeah," says Isabelle, sighing. "I've filled in an application, Emma brought it home for me. But…"

"But what?" he asks, gentle.

"I won't get it," Isabelle mutters. "There's no way the Mayor will _ever_ let me get it." She knows Emma and Mary Margaret think the same. They've encouraged her, and Mary Margaret helped her fill in the application form. Still, she has no qualifications – not even her high school diploma, thanks to her father and the Mayor – and although she's started correspondence classes to get her GED, she won't have that for a while yet. No degree, no work experience, apart from a few summers in her father's florist business, which is hardly relevant for a librarian.

All she has is passion, and a ten-year stint in a locked psychiatric ward.

"Okay," says Archie, "let's turn that around. Why _should_ she hire you? Let's think about what skills you have that qualify you for the job."

Isabelle sighs; he likes doing this, turning things around. "I love to read," she says, shrugging her shoulders. "I guess I know a lot about books, and writers. I mean, not from the past ten years, but…"

"Good," he praises. "What else?"

"I'm organised," says Isabelle slowly, thinking it through. "I know how to use a library reference system, and how to set it up. I like keeping things in order." She sighs again. "But I don't have any experience or any qualifications. And if that wasn't enough, she helped lock me up. She didn't want me let out."

Panic rises in her throat at that familiar thought. She can remember in vivid detail that day, ten weeks ago now, when she'd heard arguing outside her door. Emma Swan had burst into her cell, the Mayor trailing in her wake loudly demanding that Emma leave, that she stop interfering in things that weren't any of her business.

Regina Mills had claimed she was violent; suicidal; had claimed this was the best place for her and that she was getting the best treatment possible. She'd told Emma that Isabelle lacked mental capacity to make her own decisions. That the Mayor and Moe French had decided that this was the best course of action, and she must stay where she was.

But Archie had been there too. While Emma and Regina had been arguing, Archie had come to Isabelle's side, had crouched beside her and introduced himself. He'd smiled, gentle and open, honest in a way she hadn't seen from anybody in ten long years.

He'd promised to take care of her, and she'd believed him. And when Archie had straightened and turned on the Mayor, he'd told her quietly, calmly, that since Isabelle hadn't had a psychiatric assessment in more than five years, she didn't have a leg to stand on and he would be taking over Isabelle's care.

It hadn't been immediate; she'd spent a week in another ward of the hospital, a little side bay with _windows_ and a proper bed, and things to read and a television to watch. Archie had spent most of his days with her, working intensively, helping her acclimate to the small amount of freedom she'd been given. Assessing her mental state, assessing the damage done from ten years of being locked away. At the end of the week, a judge had been in to see her and laid out the conditions for her release.

It had been obvious that Regina wanted to keep her locked up; obvious that she had her reasons for it. But Archie had assessed her; Isabelle is not violent, is not suicidal, and any mental health problems are a result of her imprisonment. Her earlier records were scarce enough that he couldn't comment on why she'd been committed, he'd said to the judge, but she certainly does not need to be in a mental ward now.

Archie, she reminds herself now, is on her side. Archie won't let Regina put her back in that place. It's enough, just, to quell the panic. She breathes deeply, the way Archie's taught her. Clenches her hands into fists and feels her nails biting into her palms.

"Isabelle," says Archie quietly, "I promised I'd help you, and I intend to. The Mayor has no legal basis to have you committed again. You're as sane as anyone else."

Isabelle laughs, a choked sound. "I'm not sure that's saying much, Dr Hopper," she says, and he smiles, concedes the point.

"Alright," he says. "Then shall we say you're no more mentally ill than anybody else?" Isabelle's smile is genuine, and Archie leans back in his chair, pleased. "Even applying for the job is really good progress," he tells her. "Let's just take one step at a time."

"Okay," she whispers. She doesn't think there will be a next step – doesn't think she'll even be called for an interview – but she's willing to allow Archie to think there will be.

"What else have you done this week?" he asks. Isabelle hesitates for a moment, and Archie waits, patient.

"I went for a walk by myself," she says slowly, "and met Mr Gold." There's a flicker of something on Archie's face, a hint of distaste before it's hidden behind his professional mask. Like everybody else in Storybrooke, he has no liking for the pawnbroker, the deal-maker.

"He…" She tries to formulate her thoughts, hesitates. She isn't quite sure what to say, or how to say it. "We went into Granny's," she says at last. "He bought me a hot chocolate. And a slice of cake."

Archie's surprise isn't hidden quickly enough. "You hadn't been in to Granny's yet, had you?" he says, light and gentle, although it's obvious he wants to comment on the companionship she'd had rather than where she'd gone. "How did that go?"

"Alright," says Isabelle. "I mean…everyone was staring. And talking. But it was…actually better than I thought it would be." She hasn't been back, but that's not because she's afraid of the café, of the people there. It _was_ better than she'd imagined, and nobody had overtly commented on her appearance there.

"I think Mr Gold got the Mayor to open the library," she says suddenly. "Because last week when I left here, I walked by the library and he was there. He said I was…passionate about it. And then at Granny's, I asked him outright, and he didn't deny it." Archie hesitates; it's clear he doesn't know how to take this. He's not the only one – Isabelle has spent the past four days in a state of confusion.

"How would it make you feel if he did put the proposal to the Mayor?" Archie asks at last, neither supporting nor denying her assumption.

"I don't know," says Isabelle. "I…I know people expect me to hate him. Because of what he did to my father." She lowers her gaze, twists her fingers together, thinks of the one time she's seen her father since leaving the hospital. He hadn't visited, that week before she'd been released. He'd come to the apartment afterwards, had stood at the door and begged Emma to let him in to see her.

Emma – good, kind, understanding friend that she is – had refused him entry. Isabelle had stood behind her, Mary Margaret's arm around her shoulders, and shakily told her father that she didn't care if she never saw him again.

He helped put her away; she doesn't want to see him. No amount of apologies can make up for ten long years of silence and imprisonment.

"I don't hate Mr Gold," she says into the silence. "He was…nice, actually. He…he didn't ask stupid questions or make stupid comments, or…he just…" She sighs. "He confuses me," she admits. "But I don't hate him. I don't even dislike him."

"He's definitely a confusing man," Archie says, too professional to say what she's sure he's thinking. That Mr Gold is dangerous, that she shouldn't have anything to do with him even if she doesn't hate him.

"It's strange," she whispers, "but he makes me feel…comfortable. Kind of like Henry. He doesn't make me feel like I'm weird."

"That's good," Archie says, encouraging her no matter what his own feelings are. He likes it when she finds people, things, activities, that don't make her feel awkward. Things that don't make her feel like a stranger in the real world.

She remembers the first time she tried to use the washing machine. She'd stared at it, knowing she should remember how it worked, but technology had changed so much in ten years. She'd separated coloureds from whites, looked at the box of powder, tried to work out what to do. She'd stood there for nearly twenty minutes before Mary Margaret found her and showed her how it worked. Mary Margaret is lovely, kind and compassionate, and hadn't said anything about Isabelle's inability to do such a simple thing. But Isabelle had felt awkward anyway, felt like a stupid child.

"Isabelle," says Archie then, "I asked you a question earlier, and you couldn't answer it." She nods, clasps her hands tightly together, keeps her eyes downcast. "I'm going to ask it again," he says, "and I don't want you to answer right now. I know it's hard for you to think about, so there's no pressure, okay? Just in your own time. You can come back to me whenever you have an answer."

Isabelle nods, can't look up at him. There's a lump in her throat, panic and tears and grief, and she knows he's right. She knows she _has_ to think about this, has to talk about it, because if she doesn't, she'll never be able to move past it.

But it hurts. It _hurts_. Because she'd _trusted_ him, he was all she had and she'd trusted him to do what was right, to take care of her and be her family and not to shut her up in a closed ward and never make sure she was properly cared for, never come to visit her at all. Ten _years_, and it _hurts_. More than anything else, it's a hurt that's deep inside her, a splinter in her heart, omnipresent and everlasting.

She doesn't think it will ever go away. Archie says it's too soon to be making statements like that, but Isabelle doesn't think it will ever go away.

"Do you really hate your father, or are you afraid of him?" Archie asks her gently. Isabelle can't speak, blinks away hot tears that sting her eyes. "Don't answer now," he reminds her. "Think about it. My door is always open."


	5. Chapter 5

Title: Of Dreams and Awakenings

Rating: T

Word count: ~51k

Characters: Belle/Isabelle French, Mr Gold/Rumplestiltskin, Mary Margaret, Emma Swan, Archie Hopper, Henry Mills, Regina Mills, Moe French, various other Storybrooke characters.

Pairing: Belle/Rumplstiltskin (Isabelle/Mr Gold)

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Once Upon A Time' does not belong to me.

* * *

She's eating lunch when the Mayor rings the doorbell of the apartment. She's alone, because Emma sometimes comes back for lunch to keep her company but often can't, and when Isabelle answers the door she feels that cold rush of panic settling into her stomach.

"Miss French," Regina greets her. There's a hint of a smirk about her, as if she knows how much she frightens Isabelle and she _enjoys_ it. "May I come in?"

She can't refuse, bites her tongue so hard she can taste blood in her mouth but steps aside. Ice prickling up her spine, her heart pounding, but Isabelle can't stop Regina.

She's too afraid.

"We haven't had a chance to talk," Regina says, watching as Isabelle shuts the door. "How are you doing, Miss French?"

"I'm fine," says Isabelle, practically biting the words off. She shoves her hands in her pockets so Regina can't see how she's shaking. "Was there something you wanted?"

Regina tilts her head, perfectly painted smile in place, shark's grin hidden behind her eyes. "Actually, yes," she says. "I came to offer you a friendly word of advice."

"Friendly," Isabelle echoes, and she shakes her head. "You're not my friend. You're never going to be my friend." Regina takes a step towards her, and Isabelle widens the gap again. "And you'll excuse me for not being willing to accept your advice," she adds.

"Now, dear, I've only ever been concerned for your welfare," says the Mayor, all crocodile tears and fake sympathy. Isabelle doesn't believe her for a second, feels her hands shaking even in her pockets. She knows the Mayor can see her fear, is _sure_ she's relishing it.

"I don't believe you," she whispers, and shakes her head. "Say what you have to say, and then please leave."

"Very well," says Regina. "I wanted to advise you to be more careful in your choice of friends, Miss French." Isabelle frowns, confused, but Regina goes on. "Mr Gold is a very dangerous man, dear. You don't want to be getting involved with him."

"Mr Gold," Isabelle repeats. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, I think you do," Regina says, her smirk gone now, something of viciousness lurking about her smile. "Demands for the reopening of the public library, suggestions about who I hire as librarian – you know exactly what I'm talking about, Miss French."

Isabelle is silent; she'd suspected it, of course, but hadn't expected anyone to openly admit it – especially not the Mayor herself. She doesn't know what it means, that Mr Gold had gone to the Mayor and…demanded? Demanded the library be reopened.

For her – but why?

"He's a very dangerous man," Regina says again. "And a young woman in your situation needs to be very careful about who she makes friends with."

It rankles, but Regina isn't the only one to say that. Emma had commented, after that evening at Granny's, that Mr Gold isn't someone she thinks Isabelle should be friendly with. But Emma was saying it out of concern; there is no concern now in Regina's words or voice. Only malice, and perhaps a hint of something else.

"He's not my friend," she says at last. "And even if he was, it's not any business of yours." She lifts her chin, tries to be brave. Do the brave thing, she thinks, and bravery will follow. She can't remember where she heard that, who said it to her, but it feels…right. It feels like something she can live by. "You're not my friend either," she says. "You don't have my best interests at heart. You have _your_ best interests at heart. And I think you should leave now, please."

Regina's lip curls; she's displeased. "There's one more thing, Miss French," she says. "The job you applied for, at the library."

Isabelle nods, drops her gaze. "I know," she says. "You're not going to give it to me."

"On the contrary, Miss French," says the Mayor, "you're hired." Isabelle lifts her head, stares, sees Regina's discomfort. It's not her choice, Isabelle deduces, but can't comprehend how anybody could make her do this.

"I don't understand," she says, hesitant, uncertain.

"As I said," Regina snaps, "you're making friends in dangerous places."

Mr Gold. Again, Mr Gold. Isabelle ruthlessly suppresses a shiver, won't let Regina see how discomfited she is by the idea of it, by the concrete reality of his interest in her.

Still, she thinks as she looks at Regina, standing in the centre of the apartment, a deal-maker is better than a tale-spinner. Mr Gold may be a dangerous man, but he never lies. Not like this woman, who lies and cheats and locks people away.

"Thank you for letting me know," she says at last. Calm, serene. A swan gliding across a lake, showing no sign of the activity beneath. "When do I begin?"

"In three weeks," says Regina crisply. "I'm having the building refitted. But you'll need to go over the stock first, to bring it up to date. Your budget is not limitless, but I'm sure you'll manage."

"I'm sure I will," says Isabelle. "If there's nothing else?" Regina scowls, stalks to the front door, opens it and pauses.

"Do be careful, Miss French," she advises. "Dr Hopper may think you're no danger to anybody, but I have my doubts, and I assure you, my word has greater weight in this town than his."

"I'm sure it does," says Isabelle. She pulls her hands from her pockets, clasps them together tightly behind her back. "But you'll forgive me if I put my trust in him, rather than you." They stare at each other, measuring, and Isabelle isn't sure what the other woman can see. She isn't sure what she's revealing, or what she's managing to conceal.

Finally the Mayor nods her head, steps across the threshold. "Have a good day, Miss French," she says. "And do remember what I said."

Isabelle shuts the door firmly behind her, leans against it for a moment, closes her eyes and tries to breathe deeply. Now the Mayor has gone, the panic is rising and she can't control it. It cuts off her breathing, makes her dizzy and light-headed, and she drops to her knees, lifts her hands to her head, tries to do as Archie had taught her. In and out, counting her breaths, counting the time between them, in and out.

In and out.

Eventually it passes, and Isabelle is able to stand up again. She goes back to the table, to her lunch that's grown cold, picks up the plate and takes it to the microwave to reheat. She stands in front of it, watching the plate slowly revolve, feels her hands trembling still.

She's got the job, but she can hardly believe it. She had never imagined that Regina Mills would allow it – hadn't dared imagine it for more than those first few moments when Emma had announced that the library was to be reopened.

She's too afraid of the Mayor to dream that she could allow Isabelle any measure of happiness, or even mere safety.

The microwave beeps, and Isabelle takes out her meal, returns to the table. Fear, she thinks. Archie had asked her to think about her father, about whether she's angry with him or afraid. There's no such ambiguity about Regina Mills; Isabelle is afraid of her, nothing more or less. She has good reason to be, and Regina has made it clear that if she decides fit, she'll have Isabelle flung back into the locked ward.

No matter what Archie says, no matter how he and Emma try to reassure her that it can't happen, Isabelle is so terribly afraid of it. She can't go past the hospital yet, takes long detours whenever she's required to go somewhere near it.

She wakes, sometimes, in the middle of the night and thinks she's back in that room. That cold, square room with just a small window high up. A ledge covered with a thin mattress, no pillow and sometimes no blanket. Restraints whenever they decide she's violent, drugs to control what they say are psychotic episodes.

She doesn't remember ever being in such a state, doesn't remember the things they say she's done and said. They told her, she remembers now, that she used to rave about a man in a castle. But Isabelle doesn't remember any of that, and when she wakes in the night feeling smothered by her blanket, she thinks she's back there. She thinks they've restrained her again, and she thrashes until the blanket is gone, screams until her throat is sore.

Emma and Mary Margaret have learned how to handle it, and she _hates_ that, hates that her friends have to do this for her. They wake her by calling her name; they remove the blankets but don't touch her, let her come back to consciousness and wakefulness as the realisation that she is _not_ confined slowly creeps into her mind.

And Regina Mills would have her back there in a heartbeat. The warning is clear, Isabelle thinks as she picks at her food. Regina will find a way to put her back in the hospital if she finds a reason.

Isabelle can't help but wonder what she did to deserve such treatment, why she frightens the Mayor so much. Because she thinks it must be fear, there must be _some_ reason why Regina doesn't want her free. It isn't concern for her mental state, or the safety of others. There's something unknown, something hidden. Something the Mayor doesn't want her, or anyone else, to know.

She tries to think about her father, tries to do as Archie had asked and think about whether she's just angry with him, or whether she's afraid of him too. It's harder, with him, to work out if there's a difference. With the Mayor it's easy – the Mayor had no duty of care towards her, no reason to protect her. Her father…

Her father should have protected her from everything, including the Mayor.

He should have protected her.

Isabelle isn't hungry anymore; she throws away the rest of her meal, cleans the plate and her utensils, leaves them to dry on the draining board. She thinks, for a moment, of what Emma and Mary Margaret will say when they see how much she's thrown away, how much she hasn't eaten.

She needs new clothes, she knows. She's lost so much weight that her jeans barely stay up even with a belt. Her bras are loose and unsupportive. Her bones are sharp through the skin. It's only a matter of time, she knows, until Archie has to say something.

She's lost too much weight; she's getting unhealthy. But she can't seem to handle it, all this choice and all the flavours she hasn't tasted in years. Able to eat anything she wants, Isabelle is retreating into eating almost nothing.

Except…she ate cake, the other day, she remembers. Cake and hot chocolate with Mr Gold, in Granny's café. And she'd enjoyed that, more than she'd enjoyed any food in weeks.

Archie claims she's not ill; but Isabelle isn't certain she's entirely well, either.

Still, she has the job. A real job, in the town's library, and she will make it work. She's determined not to give Regina any excuse to fire her, or to send her back to that hell, and Isabelle supposes that's as good a reason as any to be determined to make something succeed.

She'll make it work, no matter what Regina throws at her to make her fail.


	6. Chapter 6

Title: Of Dreams and Awakenings

Rating: T

Word count: ~51k

Characters: Belle/Isabelle French, Mr Gold/Rumplestiltskin, Mary Margaret, Emma Swan, Archie Hopper, Henry Mills, Regina Mills, Moe French, various other Storybrooke characters.

Pairing: Belle/Rumplstiltskin (Isabelle/Mr Gold)

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Once Upon A Time' does not belong to me.

* * *

She has to buy new clothes for her upcoming job, as well as replacing the clothes her friends got her when she was first released from the hospital, which means shopping – something Belle hadn't been fond of even before her incarceration. Mary Margaret comes with her, both to help her choose appropriate work clothing because Isabelle has absolutely no idea what's suitable for her new job, and to make sure Isabelle is as comfortable as she can be with being out and around other people.

Emma had offered to come as well, but Mary Margaret had pointed out, with an amused smile, that Emma doesn't wear the uniform she's meant to wear as Sheriff, so she's hardly likely to be able to pick suitable clothes for Isabelle to wear for work.

Isabelle tries clothes on, models them for Mary Margaret, and tries not to think about who's paying for all this. She has a credit card, but the bills go to her father. Once she's earning, she promises herself, she'll pay him back every cent.

She doesn't know how he's paying for it in the first place – because she knows he owes money to Mr Gold. She tries not to connect the dots, because she doesn't want to go there. At least not yet.

"I think you've got enough now," Mary Margaret says finally. "At least to begin with. Enough to mix and match, anyway."

Isabelle nods, pulls her sweater over her head. "I think so," she agrees. "I should probably get some new underwear, as well." She gathers together the clothes, tries not to see the way Mary Margaret looks at her.

"Are you ready to talk about it, yet?" Mary Margaret asks her, soft and gentle. Isabelle shrugs, bites her lip. "Isabelle, you've dropped nearly two clothes sizes," Mary Margaret goes on. "In two and a half months. That's…that's not good. You know that."

"I know," says Isabelle, the words choked in her throat. She closes her eyes, refuses to allow the tears that threaten to rise. "I just…it's just really hard."

"Have you talked to Dr Hopper about it?"

"No." Isabelle hugs the clothes to her, glances up at Mary Margaret. "I will," she says, a promise that's perhaps a little rash. But she means it – she'll bring it up when she sees Archie, tomorrow afternoon. She'll try to explain the problems she's having, the reasons she's losing weight. He's a good doctor; even if he doesn't have solutions, he'll have advice, he'll help her work through whatever it is that's stopping her eating.

She's sure of it, even though the possibility seems remote. Archie had asked her to trust him, that day in the hospital, and she does. She trusts him more than anyone else.

"I will," she says again. "It's not that…I'm not doing it deliberately. I just…" She shrugs, can't explain it to Mary Margaret, who is a good friend but cannot understand the imprisonment Isabelle suffered, the imprisonment that is still so very vivid.

"Okay," says Mary Margaret. "It's okay. Let's go and pay, and then we can head back." She takes some of the clothes from Isabelle, ushers her out of the changing rooms. "I think Emma was talking about watching a movie tonight," she says cheerfully, clearly determined to change the subject. "There's still so many good ones you haven't seen yet."

Isabelle likes it, this casual way Mary Margaret has of referring to things Isabelle missed while she was in the hospital. Movies, music, political events – it all passed her by, with no television and no newspapers, and most other people she's met feel awkward when any of it impinges on conversation. Even Emma gets a look sometimes, like she's not sure whether she should apologise for talking about something that Isabelle's missed.

Not Mary Margaret; she takes it in her stride and explains things to Isabelle, quietly and cheerfully, and answers Isabelle's questions without making her feel stupid.

"That sounds nice," she says as they reach the lingerie department. She doesn't bother trying anything on here, just grabs things that look like they'll fit. She's had enough of the department store, although it's not large and there aren't too many people around. But it has artificial lights and artificial air, racks of clothing and thin carpets faded and matted into dull greyness. It's confining.

She wants to get out, wants the sky and the sun. She spent so long locked up that sometimes she struggles with being indoors; it's something else she knows she's got to talk to Archie about, because once the library's open, she'll have to be indoors all day. Nine to six every week day, nine to midday on Saturdays. She'll get a break for lunch, of course, but still, it's a long time to be inside.

But the library has lots of windows, she reminds herself, and that will help.

They go to the checkout, and Isabelle leans against the counter as the cashier scans in barcodes and folds clothing into bags. She hands over her credit card to pay, plastic and binary code, all funded by her father, and she lets Mary Margaret take most of the bags from her.

"Do you need anything else?" Mary Margaret asks her then.

"No," says Isabelle, shaking her head, following her friend out of the labyrinth, towards the doors, towards freedom. "No, that's everything." Her jeans are slipping down; she frees a hand to hitch them up again. The new clothes she's bought will fit better – although she won't throw out the ones that are too big. She needs to gain weight, she knows. She needs to get healthy again.

It's cooler today, the skies clouded over and threatening rain. A spring thunderstorm, Isabelle thinks, and likes the idea.

"We should get back," says Mary Margaret. "I didn't bring an umbrella."

"I don't mind getting wet," Isabelle says, but she lets Mary Margaret set the pace. Across the small parking lot, onto the street and towards the centre of town. "Thanks for coming with me," she says. "I'm getting better about…" She waves a hand, encompassing the town, the outside, the people. "Still," she goes on, "I wouldn't have known what to pick."

"You're welcome," says Mary Margaret. "And you'd have been fine – you've seen what I wear to work."

Isabelle nods, follows Mary Margaret as they turn onto Main Street. "I guess," she says. "But it's more fun with a friend."

"That's true," Mary Margaret laughs. "Hey, what about getting a coffee or something in Granny's before we go back?"

Isabelle hesitates; if she says no, Mary Margaret will accept that, she knows. She's only been into Granny's once, that evening with Mr Gold, and she's not sure she's comfortable going in again. Granny seemed nice enough, although Ruby had stared a little.

She knows she should go in, but she doesn't want to. The thought of it makes a tight knot in her stomach, panic down her spine. Her mouth is dry.

"Don't worry about it," Mary Margaret says, seeing Isabelle's distress. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have suggested it. You've already done a lot today." She reaches a hand, touches Isabelle's shoulder. "Forget about it," she says softly. "We'll just go home."

"I'm sorry," Isabelle mutters, and she can't meet Mary Margaret's eyes. "You should go. If you want. I can get home by myself."

"Don't be silly," says Mary Margaret. "Like you said – it's more fun with a friend." She links her arm with Isabelle's, and they walk slowly down the street. Past the Sheriff's office, past Granny's and the grocery store.

Past the street that leads to Mr Gold's pawnshop, and Isabelle can't help glancing down towards it, her thoughts inevitably drawn to him once again.

Her father, she thinks, cannot possibly be paying for the credit card in her wallet. Isabelle isn't extravagant – has bought hardly anything since being let out of the hospital, except for essentials like clothes and food – but even so, she knows her father. She knows what a poor businessman he is.

She knows what he owes to Mr Gold. She knows what _she_ owes to Mr Gold, because the Mayor had made it clear why the library is being reopened, and why she's been hired. The only reason she has the job is because Mr Gold went to the Mayor and…

Demanded it.

The library, the job – and yes, she's pretty sure he's released her father from his debt, because there's no way Moe French could afford to pay her rent, her credit card, his own bills, _and_ pay back however much it is that he owes to Mr Gold.

There's just no way.

"What are you thinking about so seriously?" Mary Margaret asks, teasing her a little. "You've got the oddest look on your face, Isabelle."

"Nothing important," says Isabelle, banishing thoughts of the deal-maker, smiling at her friend. "Hey, let's bake something when we get back," she suggests. "Henry said he might come by later, I bet he'd love some cake."

"Sure," says Mary Margaret, enthusiastic, and Isabelle thinks she wouldn't disagree, not when it might lead to Isabelle eating something. Baking is an activity Isabelle likes, though, and she doesn't really associate it with _eating_. She's gone through an entire recipe book over the last eleven weeks, trying anything that catches her eye. She hardly eats any of it, gives it to Emma or Mary Margaret, or Henry if he comes by. She baked a cake for Ashley, a few weeks ago, and Ashley's still so tired with her baby that she almost burst into tears when she'd accepted it.

Henry's there when they reach the apartment, talking intently with Emma, and he falls silent when Isabelle and Mary Margaret come in. He's got a book in his hands, closes it quickly, and Emma and Mary Margaret share an amused look.

"Hey, what's that?" Isabelle asks, dropping her bags and going to the table. "Have I read this one?"

"No," says Henry, "it's kind of a one-off." He glances up at Emma, then turns to Isabelle and pushes the book towards her. "It's a book of fairytales," he says. "You want to have a look?"

"Sure," says Isabelle with a smile. "You know me and books." She sits down, lifts the cover, flips through a few of the pages. The pictures are beautiful, she notes, although the stories don't seem quite the ones she remembers from childhood.

She pauses at one page, looks at the picture with a frown. There's something she almost _recognises_ there, but she's never seen this book before. It's impossible.

A spinning wheel, and she knows it – knows it on a visceral, instinctive level.

Isabelle shivers, pushes the book away from her. "It's nice," she says uneasily. Henry's looking at her, a strange look on his face, and he looks from her to the open book, frowns thoughtfully.

"Do you like that story?" he asks her. "I always thought it was kind of sad. Beauty didn't get to stay with the Beast."

"She would have stayed," says Isabelle. Her voice sounds strange, as if it's coming from a long way away. "If he'd let her." Henry's eyes are wide now, he stares at her with something like urgency.

"You know the story?" he demands.

"No," says Isabelle after a moment, shakes herself, laughs uneasily. "Not that version. I've never seen the book before, how could I know it? I'd better get these clothes put away." She can feel Emma and Mary Margaret watching her, can feel their concern at her strange behaviour, but she can't reassure them, not yet. She's reacting strangely to the book, but she can't explain it, can't say why.

She just knows it makes something in her stomach twist, makes something in her heart ache.

"We thought we might do some baking," Mary Margaret says then, effectively changing the subject. "How about it, Henry? What do you think, cupcakes or cookies?"

"Cookies," says Henry firmly, and Isabelle collects her bags, goes to her small room. It's the smallest of the three bedrooms, hastily refurbished from what had been a storage area when Emma and Mary Margaret had offered Isabelle a place to stay. Small but cosy, and Isabelle sits down on the bed, hunches over and covers her face with her hands.

Why, she demands of herself, did that book feel familiar? That page? She has never in her whole life seen a spinning wheel.

Too many things to think about, she decides. Baking is simple; she'll put away her new clothes and go and bake with Henry.


	7. Chapter 7

Title: Of Dreams and Awakenings

Rating: T

Word count: ~51k

Characters: Belle/Isabelle French, Mr Gold/Rumplestiltskin, Mary Margaret, Emma Swan, Archie Hopper, Henry Mills, Regina Mills, Moe French, various other Storybrooke characters.

Pairing: Belle/Rumplstiltskin (Isabelle/Mr Gold)

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Once Upon A Time' does not belong to me.

* * *

Isabelle hesitates at the door, biting her lip, twisting her hands together. She shouldn't be here, she knows. There are a hundred reasons why she shouldn't be here. A hundred reasons why she should walk away without opening the door, without stepping into the building.

She should go, and yet she doesn't. She takes a deep breath, pushes the door open. The bell set over the door chimes softly, and again when Isabelle lets the door swing shut behind her.

The pawnshop is dark, smells faintly of dust, and after the bright daylight outside Isabelle has to pause to let her eyes adjust. She squints into the darkness until she can make out the shape of counters, cupboards, things scattered all about. She can't see the pawnbroker though, and she steps further into the shop, glances about as things become clearer.

A strange collection of objects, she thinks, wonders if some of these things have any value at all. But they must, she thinks, because otherwise why would they be pawned?

There are a pair of wooden dolls on one glass display case; a beautiful glass slipper within the case itself. A broken compass sits next to the slipper, and a beautifully ornate hair comb.

"Miss French?"

"Oh!" she gasps, jumps, spins around to look at him. "You startled me," she says. Her heart is racing, adrenaline surging through her system. "I didn't hear you," she adds.

Mr Gold smiles, polite and a little apologetic. "My apologies," he says. "Quite unintentional, I assure you." Isabelle nods slowly, feels her heartbeat slowing, looks at him and once again feels like she knows him somehow.

"I, uh…this place is…" She hesitates, trying to find the right word. Mr Gold is smiling now, just slightly – just a hint of amusement showing through, as if he can tell what she's thinking. "Incredible," she says at last, and finds she means it. A shop of curiosities.

"Thank you," he says. "I was about to make a cup of tea. Would you care to join me?" Isabelle nods before she quite realises it, follows him through to the back room. There's a kettle there, a small kitchenette, and Isabelle watches as Mr Gold moves economically around, preparing tea. His movements are precise and graceful despite the limp, despite the cane.

"I wanted to thank you," she says.

"For what, dear?" he asks, not glancing at her. The kettle boils; he warms the pot, discards the water, puts teabags in and fills it up. For some reason it delights Isabelle, this attention to detail.

Mr Gold strikes her as a man who pays attention to the details, no matter how small.

"You know for what," she says. "The library. My job."

"Oh, you got the job, then?" he says, feigning ignorance. The truth is revealed in the way he glances at her, just briefly but long enough for her to recognise the hint of smugness, of satisfaction, in his eyes. He knows exactly what she means, but won't admit it. No doubt he has his reasons, and Isabelle isn't inclined to press him.

"I did," she says. "The Mayor came and told me herself." She grimaces, and Mr Gold glances at her again, lifts an eyebrow but doesn't comment. He's assembled a tray with the tea things, she sees, and knows he'll struggle to carry it to the table. She steps forward, moves past him, picks it up without comment. She hears him inhale, sharply, as their arms brush.

She puts in on the table; he's put cookies on a plate, she sees, wonders if he's trying to feed her up. Other people are less subtle about it, and she doesn't think she minds.

"Thank you," he says after a long moment, and he steps across the room to the table, gestures for her to sit before he joins her. A gentleman's manners, she thinks, oddly charmed by it. A gentleman's manners and dragon's eyes.

He pours tea – milk first, so it doesn't scald, tea after, lumps of sugar in a bowl, but Isabelle has never cared for sweet tea. She takes a cookie, sees his eyes flicker across her hand as she helps herself, but it's not disapproval in his glance. Quite the opposite in fact, and Isabelle's suspicion is confirmed. Still, she doesn't mind. Somehow his concern is of a different order to that of Emma and Mary Margaret.

"Are you looking forward to the job?" he asks her then, picking up his teacup, cradling it in his hands. "At the library."

"Yes," says Isabelle, smiling now. "I've been sorting out all the old stock – it was locked up in storage at the town hall. And I've got a budget for new books, so I've been ordering as well. The rebuilding's going really fast, I'll be able to start moving things in by the end of the week."

Whether he's genuinely interested or not, he listens to her talk for nearly half an hour, asking sensible questions and even making a few suggestions. He refills her cup, and Isabelle eats five cookies without thinking about it, only realises what she's done when the plate is empty.

"I'm sorry," she says. "I didn't even let you have one."

Mr Gold shakes his head. "They were for you," he says. "Pay it no mind." There's something strange in the way he looks at her, and Isabelle pauses for a moment, tilts her head as she looks at him. She can't shake off that strange feeling that she knows him, although she can't remember ever meeting him before…

Before.

She leans back in her chair, clasps her hands together. "I meant it, you know," she says quietly. "I really do want to thank you."

"As I said, entirely unnecessary," says Mr Gold.

"It's not," Isabelle contradicts him. "Even if you won't admit it, I know you've done a lot for me." She can't look at him now, drops her gaze to the table, the empty tea cups. But for a moment she doesn't see them – for a moment she sees a different cup, delicate and pretty, with a chip in its rim.

"Miss French?"

"I – I'm sorry," she says, the words automatic, and she blinks, shakes her head. "I, um…"

"You were thanking me," Mr Gold says. There's a strangeness to his voice, to the way he looks at her now. As if he's hoping for something, waiting for something. There's something hidden beneath the surface – just like the Mayor, Isabelle thinks, but at the same time it's completely different.

"Yes," she murmurs. "Yes, I…" She gathers her thoughts together, shakes herself. "Even if you won't admit it, I know you got the Mayor to open up the library. I won't ask how. But you did." She pauses, hesitates. He's watching her expectantly, as if he knows there's more, but she knows he won't admit to anything. He's canny, secretive. Everything is worked to his own advantage.

Except…except how does helping her provide any advantage to him?

"Why?" she asks him, plaintive and confused. "Why are you so interested?"

"We've had this conversation before, Miss French," he reminds her. He reaches for her cup, puts it back on the tray, adds his own to it. "My answer hasn't changed." He rises, doesn't bother with the cane, picks up the tray and limps across to the counter. Isabelle watches, wonders why he's allowing her to see that small amount of vulnerability.

"You said a great disservice had been done to me," she remembers.

"Unless you know of any good reason for your incarceration," says Mr Gold smoothly, "I stand by that answer."

"As far as I know, there isn't one," Isabelle mutters. She closes her eyes for a moment, remembers the cell, remembers back ten years to the day they'd come for her. After ten years of the same four walls, ten years of pills and injections and never even knowing the day of the week, the memory is barely there. Faded, in tatters, like a page torn from a book, folded and wrinkled, the edges scuffed and bent.

She remembers Regina Mills telling her it's for her own good, that her psychotic episodes have become too severe. That her mental illness is the reason she can't remember doing any of the things Regina says she's done. She remembers her father turning away from her, deaf to her pleas for help.

"Miss French," says Mr Gold, and Isabelle glances up. He's returned to her side, is staring down at her with a frown. "It was not my intention to upset you," he says after a long moment.

"It's not your fault," she says, lifts a hand to wipe away the solitary tear that's fallen. "I'm sorry. I should go." She stands up, but he doesn't step back, so she finds herself close to him. So close, and she looks up at him, holds her breath, feels something fluttering in her stomach.

He moves away, retrieves his cane and leans heavily on it. "Do stop by again," he says, and it's more than politeness, she thinks. It's genuine, and she wonders if he's lonely, wonders why he's chosen _her_ as a companion, because it's clear he likes her.

Or perhaps, she thinks, she simply _hopes_ he likes her. That's a dangerous thought, and not one she cares to examine right now. He's older than she is, and dangerous, and…

She should not be attracted to him, for so many reasons. And there are so many reasons why she should go. He says nothing more, indicates that she should precede him, and they move back into the shop, the strange pawnshop filled with curious things that seem to have little value.

A dragon, she thinks, hoarding treasure.

"Thank you for the tea," she says, turning back to him. Mr Gold has gone to the long counter with the cash register, leans against it. She wonders if his leg is hurting, wonders what happened to give him the limp.

"You're very welcome," he says.

"And the cookies," she adds. "Next time I promise I won't eat them all."

His gaze is sharp suddenly, intent and focused, and Isabelle feels for a moment horribly, painfully exposed to him. As if he's reading all her thoughts and feelings and intentions, picking through her soul for what he wants to find.

"Next time," he murmurs, and it's not quite a question. "Well, you're always welcome, Miss French."

"Isabelle," she says. "You can call me Isabelle." That faint smile lingers on his face then, creases at the corners of his eyes, a slight uptilt of his mouth.

"Perhaps," he says. "Have a good day, Miss French."


	8. Chapter 8

Title: Of Dreams and Awakenings

Rating: T

Word count: ~51k

Characters: Belle/Isabelle French, Mr Gold/Rumplestiltskin, Mary Margaret, Emma Swan, Archie Hopper, Henry Mills, Regina Mills, Moe French, various other Storybrooke characters.

Pairing: Belle/Rumplstiltskin (Isabelle/Mr Gold)

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Once Upon A Time' does not belong to me.

* * *

The library is glorious. It's spacious, and just as bright and airy as she'd thought it would be, and everything is pristine and new.

When the Mayor does something, Isabelle thinks as she surveys her new domain, she does it properly. She might have been blackmailed, bullied or bribed into opening the library and hiring Isabelle as librarian, but she hasn't done it half-heartedly.

The library is glorious, and tomorrow it will be open for business. She's spent the whole day getting it ready – putting books on shelves, making sure the computer system is functioning robustly, arranging and re-arranging the children's section. She's determined that everything will be absolutely perfect for the opening, determined that Mayor Mills will have no cause to complain.

She checks her watch; it's late, time to lock up the library and head home. Well, she amends, not quite home. She's planning on making a stop first. There's a Tupperware box of brownies in her bag that are destined for…

A friend? Is that what he is? Isabelle frowns thoughtfully as she shuts down the computer, goes through the library to check all the lights are turned off. She's seen him three times, and he's been…well, nice isn't a word people often associate with Mr Gold, but he's been nice to her. He'd listened to her talking about the library, a few weeks ago when she'd gone to his shop to thank him, and hadn't ever appeared bored or disinterested. He'd given her cookies, and he'd seemed pleased when she hinted she'd visit him again.

But there's something else there too, something darker running beneath their interactions. Something she doesn't want to think about, not really.

It's been ten years since she thought about _anyone_ like that, and she knows there are so many reasons why she shouldn't be thinking about Mr Gold in this way. But Isabelle can't deny it to herself. She's grown so used to examining all her thoughts and feelings, to exposing the painful as well as the pleasant within her own mind, that she can't deny how attracted to him she is.

Thirteen weeks since she was released from the hospital, and Isabelle hasn't felt any kind of sexual urge. She'd almost assumed the drugs and the captivity had erased her sex drive entirely. And yet there is Mr Gold.

Her cheeks are warm as she picks up her bag, leaves the library and locks it securely behind her. A friend, she tells herself, and nothing more, because he must be at least two decades older than her, and he beat up her father, and she owes him more than she can ever repay. No sense complicating things, she thinks, because it's hardly likely he would feel the same anyway.

She ought to talk to Archie about some of this. However while Archie is a wonderful doctor, patient and kind, he is after all a man. Perhaps Mary Margaret, then, although Mary Margaret, like everyone else, is no great fan of Mr Gold.

It's a short walk to Mr Gold's pawnshop, and it's only once she's there that she realises he might have closed up for the day. It's past six; the door is firmly shut, the lights in the shop are off, and the sign on the door is turned to 'closed'. Disappointed, Isabelle stands for a minute, staring at the sign.

She doesn't know where he lives – and even if she did, she thinks that would be too presumptuous, to go to his house without invitation. No, she can't do that, and so the brownies will have to go back with her to the apartment. She turns to go, head lowered. She hadn't quite realised how much she'd been looking forward to seeing him again.

"Miss French, you weren't going, I hope?"

Isabelle turns around, feels a smile tugging at her mouth. "I didn't think you were there, Mr Gold," she admits. He's standing in the doorway, cane in hand as always. His jacket has been discarded, revealing white shirt sleeves and a waistcoat. It makes him look even more slender than usual, and Isabelle feels her cheeks heating as she looks at him, feels that fluttering of desire in her stomach that's so strange and _new_.

"I came to bring you something," she says. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt you."

"Hardly," he says. "I was just closing up." He steps aside, gestures for her to come into the shop; their arms brush as she passes, and she's not sure if he's done it deliberately or not.

"I don't want to get in your way," she says. "I can come another time."

"You're not in the way," he assures her. "It's lovely to see you again." He closes the door, glances at her sidelong. "How are you, Miss French?"

"I'm…alright," says Isabelle. "And you? I meant to come by sooner, but I've been so busy with the library."

"I'm flattered you thought of coming at all," he says, limps across the room to the till and resumes whatever it is he was doing before Isabelle arrived. Flattered and pleased, judging by the small smile that lingers about his mouth. Isabelle wanders closer, leans against the counter.

"I really don't want to bother you," she says. "I could come back." She watches as he counts out notes and coins, fingers moving quickly and gracefully.

"Not at all," he says. "I shan't be a moment, and then I'm entirely at your disposal." Isabelle nods, glances around the shop as she waits for him. It fascinates her, this place; she could spend all day in here, she thinks, exploring all the things in the cabinets and display cases, all the hidden corners. She suspects he knows the history of every single item, wonders if he'd tell her if she asked.

"There," he says, closing the till and locking it. "All done." He looks at her, glances her over, and Isabelle fight another blush. It's appraising, his gaze, and she's not sure what he sees.

"I, uh…I brought you something," she says, and opens her bag, brings out the box of brownies. He's surprised, lifts an eyebrow slightly, and Isabelle shrugs sheepishly. "Well, I ate all those cookies, last time I was here," she says. "And I've been doing a lot of baking, and I thought…" She trails off; he isn't saying anything, and she wonders if this was the right thing to do.

"How thoughtful of you," he says, and he reaches to take the box from her. Their fingers brush, and it's like electricity down her spine. She stares at him, startled, but he reveals nothing. If he feels anything, he's concealing it well.

"Well, like I said, I felt bad," says Isabelle after a moment. "For eating the cookies. I know you said it was alright, but…" There's a flicker of something on his face, and she thinks he's disappointed so she hurries on. "Baking seems to be my favourite way of forgetting about things," she says, something she's only said to Archie before. "When I'm baking…I forget about…well, everything."

"Ah." He nods slowly, looks away from her. "Yes, I can understand that." There's something ancient in him then, something old and pained beyond measure. He understands more than anyone else, she thinks suddenly. She doesn't know how, but he understands captivity, understands the need to forget painful memories.

There's a dragon sleeping behind his eyes, and it understands something of what she's been through.

"So, brownies," she says, bright and cheerful. "They're really good."

"Thank you," he says, looks back at her and inclines his head. "I wonder if you'd care to share them with me? I was going to go home and have some supper. You're very welcome to join me."

Isabelle hesitates, surprised by the invitation. Everything she's heard and seen of Mr Gold has told her that he's an intensely private man, and she knows from things Emma and Mary Margaret have said that nobody else has ever been invited to join him in Granny's, or to have a cup of tea with him in the shop.

She's expected back at home, but a phone call would be enough to let them know.

"Just a suggestion," says Mr Gold, and she thinks he's trying to sound as if it doesn't matter to him either way, but either he's not trying hard enough or she's getting to know him a little better because she can see it _does_ matter to him. Her perceived rejection of him matters.

It sends a little thrill of pleasure through her, to know that he feels, if not the same, at least…something. He feels _something_ for her.

She hopes that's a good thing; hopes _this_ is a good thing. She knows what other people would say, knows what Emma and Mary Margaret and Archie would say about this new relationship she's forming.

Dangerous, she reminds herself. He's the deal-maker, the money-lender, the man who always claims his debts. And she already owes him so much.

"I'd love to," she says, throwing caution to the wind, and she's rewarded by a small, genuine smile. "I'll have to call home, though, otherwise they'll worry. And," she adds, "I can't stay late. I don't want to risk messing up tomorrow."

Mr Gold nods. "Of course," he says. "The phone's just there. I'll lock up the back while you call." He goes through to the back room, and Isabelle goes to the phone, dials the number Emma made her learn the first week she was free.

"_Hello?_" Mary Margaret answers, and Isabelle's guiltily pleased; Emma would have been harder to speak to about her changed plans, because Emma has stronger feelings about Mr Gold.

"Hey, it's Isabelle," she says. "My plans have changed for the evening." She twists the phone wire around her fingers; an old-fashioned phone, wired rather than wireless – it suits him, she thinks idly. "Mr Gold's invited me for supper." There's a long pause, and Isabelle waits it out. She can hear Emma asking something, hears Mary Margaret's furtive whisper back, but can't quite make out the words.

"_Okay_," says Mary Margaret at last, hesitant. "_If that's what you want._"

"It is," says Isabelle. She could say more – knows she'll _have_ to say more later, when she returns home – but she knows Mr Gold is close, knows he'll be listening. She can't attempt to explain herself to her friend in this situation, not when she's still not sure why he's interested in her, what he wants from her. "I won't be back late," she adds.

"_Okay_," says Mary Margaret again. "_But you want to go? He's not…he's not…_"

"Of course not," says Isabelle. She hears his cane, glances up and watches as he puts on his jacket, goes to close the blinds in the windows. "And yes, I do." There's the sound of a scuffle at the other end, the phone passed from one person to another.

"_Isabelle, are you alright?_" Emma demands. "_I don't trust him. You shouldn't either_."

"Well, I do," says Isabelle, and is amazed to realise she means it. Trust is not a commodity she gives freely – even her roommates, good friends now after nearly three months, don't have her full trust, not really. She trusts Archie, and apparently she trusts Mr Gold too. "It's fine, Emma, honestly," she says. "I'll be back later."

She hangs up before Emma can say anything else, looks up to find Mr Gold watching her. That strange, searching expression is on his face again, that look that makes her think he's trying to find something in her. Something hidden.

"Ready to go?" he asks, and Isabelle nods, smiles. He opens the door, waits for her to leave and then locks it securely, pocketing the keys. He holds his arm out for her and, charmed, Isabelle takes it.


	9. Chapter 9

Title: Of Dreams and Awakenings

Rating: T

Word count: ~51k

Characters: Belle/Isabelle French, Mr Gold/Rumplestiltskin, Mary Margaret, Emma Swan, Archie Hopper, Henry Mills, Regina Mills, Moe French, various other Storybrooke characters.

Pairing: Belle/Rumplstiltskin (Isabelle/Mr Gold)

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Once Upon A Time' does not belong to me.

* * *

Mr Gold's house, Isabelle decides, is a perfect reflection of him. Elegant, tasteful, full of dark furniture and interesting objects. Like the shop, she wishes she could explore and examine everything, to see the things he's chosen to have in his home. To know more about him, she thinks, and smiles to herself.

"I don't have anything fancy, I'm afraid," says Mr Gold, perusing the contents of his fridge. "How does omelette sound?"

"Delicious," says Isabelle, taking a seat at his kitchen table. It's strange, but somehow being around Mr Gold seems to ease the problems she's been having with food. Cake, and cookies, and now supper, and she's actually looking forward to supper, something she hasn't felt in a while.

Archie's suggestion had been to plan out her meals, to make a menu and stick to it, which means she has to choose what to eat, but only once a week. Once it's chosen, she doesn't have to think about the food, only about cooking it. Cooking isn't a problem, it's the eating of it, and although it's only been two weeks, Isabelle thinks she's doing a little better.

"Is the library ready for opening?" he asks as he pulls ingredients from the fridge, collects a chopping board and a knife and comes to join her at the kitchen table.

"I hope so," says Isabelle fervently. "I really don't want to get anything wrong. The Mayor's just looking for an excuse."

There's a brief flicker of something dark across his face, something that reminds her how dangerous he is.

"I imagine she is," he says. "She never has taken kindly to somebody getting away from her." Isabelle frowns faintly, rests her elbow on the table, puts her chin in her hand.

"You know her very well," she observes.

"We're old adversaries," says Mr Gold as he chops up ingredients, bares his teeth in a brief, fierce grin. "But from what I understand, she can't get her hands on you again."

"That's what Dr Hopper says, and Emma," says Isabelle quietly. She's silent then, thinks about the few encounters she's had with the Mayor since getting out of the hospital. She thinks of the day Regina had come to see her at the apartment, to give her the job and warn her off Mr Gold. She'd warned Isabelle to be careful, insinuated that if Isabelle did anything out of line she'd be straight back into the isolation ward.

She shivers. Mr Gold sees it, and his hands still.

"She won't get you," he says. Quiet, reassuring, but there's a dark promise in his words that he's not even attempting to conceal. She should be afraid, Isabelle thinks, but instead she finds it reassuring.

Mr Gold is the most powerful man in Storybrooke; more powerful even than Regina Mills. If he says the Mayor won't get her, she will believe him.

"But yes, I think the library's ready," she says, returning to the original subject. "I'm pleased with it, actually. You should come by some day." She smiles, watches as he puts aside the pepper and begins to grate cheese. She likes his hands, she decides. Long fingers, elegant movements.

"I'll make a point of it," he says, and she thinks he will. She thinks he'll pick some quiet time, close up his pawnshop for an hour or two and come to see her in the library.

To see the results of whatever deal he struck with the Mayor, and that makes her smile fade a little. But she doesn't think he's interested in her just because of whatever game of one-upmanship he's got going on with the Mayor.

Or perhaps she just _hopes_ he's interested in her for other reasons.

"Is there anything I can do to help?" she asks as he cracks eggs into a bowl expertly, whisks them together, goes to the stove and puts a pan on to heat. "I feel bad just sitting here."

"You brought dessert," he points out. "And what kind of host would I be if I asked my guest to help prepare her own supper?" He glances at her, then his gaze slides away. "Besides, you're hardly doing nothing, Miss French," he says. "I'm enjoying your company."

"I'm glad," she says – glad to have confirmation, glad she's not completely misreading the situation. "Although," she has to add, "I can't imagine why." He doesn't say anything, but she catches a glimpse of a smile before he turns his concentration onto the meal.

In minutes the meal is ready and served, and Mr Gold sits opposite her at the kitchen table, waits for her to begin before starting his own meal.

"This is delicious," Isabelle says after the first bite. "You have to teach me how to make this." She smiles across the table at him, catches a glimpse of satisfaction before it's hidden. He hides so much, this man, but she thinks she could learn how to read him, in time.

"If you like," he says. "It's not complicated."

"My cooking skills aren't up to much," says Isabelle with a shrug. "I was never a great cook but then it's been ten years…"

"And yet you bake."

"I don't know why, but baking's different," she says. "It's all…precise. You have the get the quantities right, otherwise it just doesn't work." She frowns for a moment, glances down at the plate before her. "And cooking…it's…I sort of have a bit of a problem with food."

Mr Gold doesn't say anything for a moment. He cuts a piece of omelette, eats it, his gaze thoughtful. Isabelle concentrates on eating, but she can feel the way he watches her, she's sure she knows what he's thinking about.

"You seem to be coping admirably," he says at last. Isabelle huffs a laugh, shakes her head. "Miss French, you were locked away for a very long time. You seem to have adjusted extraordinarily well to your changed circumstances."

Isabelle swallows, shrugs. "Maybe," she whispers. She thinks about Mayor Mills; thinks about the way she still avoids crowded places; thinks about her father. Archie says she's doing well, he's proud of her, but Isabelle knows there's still a long way to go.

"Anyway, I told you to call me Isabelle," she says, pushing away the fear and the doubt. Mr Gold shrugs a shoulder, says nothing. "It's not that hard," she coaxes. "And if we're going to be friends, you should be able to call me by my first name."

"And are we?" he asks then, leaning back slightly in his chair, and Isabelle's mouth is dry, but it's not fear or panic. There's something in the way he looks at her…

"I hope so," she manages. "I'd like to be friends with you."

"As you have no doubt been informed," he says, a harsh edge to his voice, "I don't have friends. I have business arrangements."

Isabelle puts her fork down, tilts her head as she looks at him. "If I was just a business arrangement, you wouldn't have invited me for supper," she says plainly. "Tell me I'm wrong, if you like." He doesn't say anything, and Isabelle swallows, folds her hands together. "I know some of what you've done for me," she says, voice low. "I can guess at the rest. But you haven't asked anything of me except my company. I think that makes us friends."

"You're missing a yet, dear," he says, still with that bite, and for a moment she sees a dragon in him, sees the sleeping dragon awoken. "I haven't asked anything of you _yet_. Haven't you heard? I always collect."

Isabelle nods slowly. "Yes, I've heard," she says. "But I'm right. This isn't business." He doesn't say anything, and she picks up her fork again, cuts a piece of omelette. "This really is very good," she says. "You will teach me how to make it, won't you?"

"If you like," he says eventually, repeating his earlier answer.

"I do," she says, glances up at him. There's more in her words than the surface, and she hopes he understands. He resumes eating, but he can't seem to stop looking at her, glances away only long enough to spear omelette with his fork before his gaze returns to her.

It's flattering, if a little unnerving sometimes, this intense scrutiny. It's like he's afraid if he looks away for too long she'll disappear – and yet he hasn't sought her out. Their first two meetings had been coincidental, and since then she's been the one to go to him. She's been the one who instigated conversation, and only then has he extended his invitations.

She wonders who he lost, to make him so scared of losing someone else. It's not a question she can ask now, though. Perhaps in time, but not now.

They don't speak again until they've finished, and then Mr Gold collects her plate, takes it to the sink and returns with the brownies.

"I don't have anything to go with them," he tells her, opening the box and placing it between them on the table.

"They're good enough alone," says Isabelle, smiling at him. "Go on, try one." He lifts an eyebrow, amused by her enthusiasm, but he takes a brownie and tries it. Isabelle waits for her verdict, reaches for her own brownie.

"Very good," he decides at last. "Did you make them from scratch?"

"Yup." Isabelle has tried packet mixes of brownies, but hadn't liked them. It had taken three different recipes to come up with a brownie she does like, but she thinks it's pretty perfect. Just moist enough, just rich enough. She takes a bite now, hums happily, and smiles at him. "Like I said," she says, "I'm good with baking."

"It seems so," he agrees. "Far better than my usual fare."

"Ooh, watch out," says Isabelle, teasing now, "I seem to be forcing my baking on everyone. I'll end up bringing round a whole load of stuff that you don't really want."

"I can't imagine ever turning you away, dearie." The words seem unintentional, and he flinches slightly as she stares at him, startled.

Dearie, she thinks. She's heard that before. She's been called that before. But he doesn't usually say it – usually it's 'dear'.

Dearie.

Sometimes, Isabelle thinks the world doesn't make sense. She wonders, sometimes, if she's more ill than Archie thinks. If these occasional flashes of…of some sort of sense memory are enough to indicate mental illness.

"Well," she says at last, "I guess dearie is a step up from Miss French." She finishes her brownie, licks a chocolate streak from her thumb. He's watching her, she realises, and she feels her cheeks heat at the look on his face. His eyes follow the movement of her hand, her mouth.

She feels incredibly aware of her own skin as he watches her. She thinks, for a moment, that there's no way this can turn out well. He's older than she is, and cynical, and hurting. And she's so very broken. Attraction, she tells herself, can never be a strong basis for two people who hurt so very much. But he's looking at her like…like he wants to be the one to lick her fingers free from chocolate, and her heartbeat feels a little too fast, her mouth a little too dry.

"I might have another," she mumbles, reaches for the box. Mr Gold finishes his own brownie, neat and fastidious, and helps himself to a second piece as well.

"These really are very good," he says. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," says Isabelle, and can't quite meet his eyes.


	10. Chapter 10

Title: Of Dreams and Awakenings

Rating: T

Word count: ~51k

Characters: Belle/Isabelle French, Mr Gold/Rumplestiltskin, Mary Margaret, Emma Swan, Archie Hopper, Henry Mills, Regina Mills, Moe French, various other Storybrooke characters.

Pairing: Belle/Rumplstiltskin (Isabelle/Mr Gold)

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Once Upon A Time' does not belong to me.

* * *

"This is great," says Mary Margaret enthusiastically. School has finished, and she's come by to see Isabelle and the refurbished library. "You've done really well, Isabelle."

"Well, a lot of it was the Mayor," Isabelle has to admit. "The builders designed the layout, and she okayed it. I didn't really have a lot of say in that." Still, the building had been bare when she'd started moving things in – shelves, of course, but also a notice board, and the children's area had been far too clinical. She'd begged comfortable chairs and cushions off people, and found somebody to paint a mural on the walls.

The whole place looks good, and Isabelle is proud, and pleased her friend's so impressed.

"A lot of it was _you_," Mary Margaret says, coming over to the desk. She perches on it, looks down at Isabelle. "You've done so well," she says softly. "You know everyone's so impressed with how well you're doing, and this is such a big step."

Isabelle shrugs, tries to smile. She's fairly sure she knows where this is going. Last night when she'd got back from Mr Gold's, she'd managed to escape questioning by feigning tiredness and going straight to bed, but it's inevitable, really.

"I'm trying," she says. "Dr Hopper thinks I'm doing a lot better, anyway. And the food thing is…I think I'm eating more."

"You are," says Mary Margaret, smiling. "I haven't said anything, but I've definitely noticed. The menu idea seems to be really helping." Isabelle nods, leans back in her chair and waits. Mary Margaret takes a deep breath. "Can we talk about Mr Gold?" she asks.

Isabelle drops her gaze to her hands, twists her fingers together. "I guess," she whispers. Better Mary Margaret than Emma, she thinks, because Emma is wonderful and a good friend, but she has very definite views about Mr Gold.

So does Mary Margaret, but then Mary Margaret knows a little something about liking the wrong person. About loving the wrong person, although Isabelle knows she's hardly there yet – she's only met Mr Gold a handful of times, after all. No, love is a step too far, but she likes him, and she's certainly attracted to him.

And that's new, that's _nice_. She _likes_ being attracted to someone again. It's something she'd thought was stolen from her, along with ten years and so much else.

"I'm not going to insult you by suggesting you don't know who he is," Mary Margaret says at last. "You know about the things he does."

"I do," says Isabelle quietly. "I mean…I'm sure I don't know all of the things he's done, but I know some of it." She glances up at Mary Margaret and finds only compassion and caring on her friend's face. "I know he beat up my father," she says. "But do you honestly think I care about that?"

Mary Margaret shakes her head. "I'm not sure," she says. "Emma thinks family is family, no matter what, but…family doesn't always do the right thing."

"No," says Isabelle. She thinks about that day, so long ago, when her father turned his back on her. Family definitely doesn't always do the right thing – sometimes they do the wrong thing, and they do it knowingly and deliberately.

"I guess I'm concerned that he wants something from you," says Mary Margaret then. "He's…he's not always upfront. I don't think he ever lies, exactly, but he…he turns things to his advantage. If he does something for you, he always wants something in return." She pauses, lost in her own thoughts, and Isabelle wonders what she's thinking about. Ashley's deal to give up her baby, perhaps, or any one of the other deals and trades Mr Gold has worked over the years to create such enmity, such fear.

"He's already done things for me," she says, and Mary Margaret looks at her in surprise. Isabelle shrugs her shoulders, gestures around. "Why do you think the Mayor opened up the library?" she asks. "It certainly wasn't altruistic." She shrugs again. "I don't know what he did, or what he said," she goes on, "but he got her to do it. And to hire me, as well."

"And – and what does he want in return?" Mary Margaret asks, shock evident in her voice, her eyes wide. "Has he asked for anything?"

"No," says Isabelle, quite truthfully. "No, nothing." There are other things he's done as well – her father's debts, the money to pay her rent and her credit card – but she doesn't have any proof, hasn't suggested to Mr Gold that she suspects he's had a hand in it.

The library, on the other hand…well, Mayor Mills had made it quite clear, although she hadn't admitted what deal Mr Gold had forced her into.

"I think he's lonely," she says, and Mary Margaret purses her lips, shakes her head. "He's not asked me for anything," Isabelle says, reaches out to take her friend's hand. "I promise. And I don't think he will. He's not…he's not taking advantage of me, or anything you and Emma have decided."

"That's not – we just – we're just concerned," says Mary Margaret, her denial feeble. "It's only been three months, Isabelle…and he's not…"

Isabelle stands up, has to turn away, hugs herself tightly and goes to stare out of the window. She knows they're only concerned, knows they're trying to look out for her, but she knows they wouldn't be so concerned if she hadn't…if she wasn't…

They wouldn't be so concerned if she was anybody else, but she is Isabelle French, and she spent ten years in a locked psychiatric ward, and so they're concerned that an older, dangerous man is taking advantage of a younger, vulnerable woman.

It makes sense, she thinks, except she _knows_ Mr Gold. She doesn't know how, but she seems to instinctively know him better than she knows anybody else in Storybrooke. And she knows he would do anything before taking advantage of her.

He would die before he hurt her again.

She shakes herself, frowns thoughtfully. Again? He's never hurt her before, and she doesn't know where that came from. She turns back to Mary Margaret, knows she's got to try to explain herself.

"I like him," she says. "And…and I think he likes me."

Mary Margaret is shocked for a moment, but the shock fades into intrigue and she pushes off the desk, comes to stand next to Isabelle.

"I didn't think he liked _anybody_," she says. "He's…well, not somebody that people really like."

"I know. But…" Isabelle shrugs helplessly. She looks at her friend, bites her lip. "I thought I'd never like anybody again," she confesses. "I mean…like that. I was on so many drugs in the hospital that it all kind of went away, you know? And since I got out…there's just been nothing. But he's…"

Mary Margaret's curiosity is only deepening, she can see. "Really?" she says. "I guess he's…distinguished, maybe, but he's so much older than you are."

"I don't think it matters," says Isabelle quietly. "Not really. Not if…anyway, that's…I've only seen him a few times. We're hardly even friends yet."

"Isabelle," says Mary Margaret, lifting an eyebrow, "he invited you for supper. He's never invited anybody into his house before. And I mean never – I can't think of a single person who's gone in there. Except Emma," she corrects herself then. "When he had the break-in."

"Break-in?"

Mary Margaret pauses, looks at her for a moment, seems to be trying to decide what to say. "It was your father," she says at last. "When Mr Gold took your father's van, your father…he decided to pay him back, I suppose. That's when…"

"Right," says Isabelle with a nod. That's when Mr Gold beat her father so badly he had to go to the hospital. The beginning of the chain of events that linked together until her release. She wonders what her father stole, because the beating was an overreaction, even for somebody who always makes sure deals are settled in his own favour.

"I like him," she says again, sighing a little. "I know all the reasons I shouldn't, but I do."

"And you think he likes you," says Mary Margaret.

"I think so," nods Isabelle. "Or…or I guess I hope so." She laughs a little, embarrassed. "It's weird," she says. "I feel like I know him. But I didn't meet him before I was taken away, and of course I hardly saw anyone while I was in the hospital."

"I don't think that's weird," says Mary Margaret, a thoughtful look on her face. She's thinking about David, Isabelle guesses, and Mary Margaret confirms it a moment later. "I know when I first met David – when he first woke up – he used to say he knew me," she says. "And…and I guess I felt the same." She gives a soft, fond laugh. "You know Henry's theory, right?"

"Henry?" Isabelle blinks, startled. "No, what theory?"

"Oh, it's his book," says Mary Margaret. "That book of fairy tales? He thinks we're all in there, we're all characters from fairy tale land and we've been cursed to live in this world."

Something cold runs down Isabelle's spine and settles in her stomach at the thought of the book Henry had shown her that evening. She hasn't seen it since, but it still had disturbed her, and the mention of it makes her feel oddly nervous now.

"Oh?" she says. "Who does he think you are?"

"Snow White," says Mary Margaret, and she looks a little sheepish. "And apparently David is Prince Charming, and we're meant to be together, or something."

Isabelle smiles. "Well, he's got that part right," she says. "So am I in the book?"

Mary Margaret's smile fades as she looks at Isabelle; she looks as if she can't quite decide whether to answer or not. It's a crazy idea, Isabelle thinks, that they're all fairy tale characters. Cursed to live in this world until somebody breaks the curse.

It's crazy, and maybe that's why Mary Margaret's hesitating, but Isabelle tilts her head expectantly, waits for an answer.

"He thinks you're Beauty," Mary Margaret says at last. "From Beauty and the Beast?"

No, not Beauty, Isabelle thinks for a moment, but the thought is gone before she can grasp it. She summons a smile, hugs herself tightly.

"Well, I guess it's nice to be thought of as pretty," she says. "But didn't he say in his version Beauty and the Beast don't stay together?"

"Lots of things are different in his book," says Mary Margaret with a shrug. "He says they're the real versions, but who knows? There are so many different versions of the stories."

"Yeah, I guess," Isabelle murmurs. She stares out of the window; it's gloomy today, dark clouds overhead, and it's been raining on and off all day. "Who's the Beast?" she finds herself asking, and she can't quite look at Mary Margaret as she asks, as she waits for an answer.

"I don't know," Mary Margaret tells her. "Henry says he hasn't figured it out yet. And," she adds, "I don't think he's figured out who Mr Gold is, either."

Isabelle forces a smile, turns to Mary Margaret. "Well, it doesn't matter," she says. "It's just a book, after all. And Mary Margaret – I _am_ grateful you and Emma are looking out for me."

"You're an adult," says Mary Margaret, "and I'm sure you know what you're doing. Just – be careful." She leans into Isabelle, nudges her. "I don't want to see you hurt," she says softly. "So be careful."

"I will," promises Isabelle.

"And I'll talk to Emma for you," Mary Margaret goes on. "I can't promise she'll back off, but I'll try to explain a bit."

"Mary Margaret, I love you," says Isabelle, and they both laugh, but Isabelle thinks she means it. She's never had a friend like Mary Margaret before, and it means so much that she's willing to trust Isabelle, trust that she knows what she's doing.

Snow White, she thinks, and smiles. Yes, she thinks she could see that.


	11. Chapter 11

Title: Of Dreams and Awakenings

Rating: T

Word count: ~51k

Characters: Belle/Isabelle French, Mr Gold/Rumplestiltskin, Mary Margaret, Emma Swan, Archie Hopper, Henry Mills, Regina Mills, Moe French, various other Storybrooke characters.

Pairing: Belle/Rumplstiltskin (Isabelle/Mr Gold)

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Once Upon A Time' does not belong to me.

* * *

"So how's it going at the library?" Archie asks her, and Isabelle grins.

"Really good," she says. "I mean, I know it's only been a week, but I'm really enjoying it."

"Good," says Archie, genuinely pleased for her, his smile wide. "So tell me about it."

"Well, it's mostly pretty quiet," says Isabelle. "I think it'll probably get busier as people realise it's open, you know? It's been closed so long. But there's usually half a dozen people a day, more or less. And on Saturday morning, Mary Margaret and I have set up a children's reading session." She likes that best, she's decided. There weren't many kids, on the first Saturday, but Mary Margaret had been brilliant. She'd brought props, and got the children to help act out the story.

"How are you coping with the interactions?" Archie inquires. "I know you were worried about that."

"Yeah." Isabelle tilts her head, thinks about the past week. "Sometimes it's hard," she has to admit. "Some people…" She makes a face. "It feels like the only reason they've come in is to stare," she tries to explain. "They wander about but I can feel them watching me. Like I'm going to suddenly do something crazy."

Archie's smile is sympathetic. "People will think what they want to think," he says. "I'm sure it's uncomfortable, but you know you're not crazy."

"Yeah," says Isabelle, and hopes he doesn't notice her slight hesitation. She's not crazy – not clinically insane – but there have been things...

Things that make her wonder. Things that unnerve her. Henry's book, the picture that had seemed so familiar. The occasional feeling, when she looks at someone, that she knows them from somewhere else.

It's intensified with Mr Gold, more…more real, somehow. She looks at him and she _knows_ him – and yet it isn't his face that's familiar, she thinks, it's something deeper than that.

She hasn't seen him since that night he invited her to supper. He hasn't come by the library, and she's honestly been so tired with her new job that she hasn't been able to go to see him. Her one day off, Sunday, had been spent crashed out on the sofa watching movies with Emma.

"Some people are really great, though," she says, pushing aside thoughts of Mr Gold for now. "There've been several who've said how glad they are the library's open again."

"That's good," says Archie.

"I think I'm doing alright," Isabelle says, shrugging. "I haven't…had any urges to run and hide, or anything. It's a nice building, I think that helps. Lots of windows." She likes windows, likes natural light. Artificial light and rooms without windows make her feel trapped, make the past bleed into the present. In the early days, three months ago, she'd been known to refuse to step into a room that's too small, too dark. She still struggles with the bathroom at the apartment sometimes, especially at night.

"But I've been having nightmares again," she has to admit. Archie nods, waits for her to go on, and Isabelle shrugs her shoulders, bites her lip for a moment. "Not…not every night," she says, "but more than I was. I guess every few nights."

"Are they always the same?" Archie asks her, and Isabelle nods. It's always the same dream, with very little variation. She's always trapped and she's always screaming but nobody ever hears, nobody cares.

Sometimes somebody's hurting her, somebody unseen.

She doesn't _always_ wake up screaming, but often enough that she's taken to keeping throat sweets by her bed. Emma and Mary Margaret don't usually come through to her anymore – she's fairly sure they've got used to it, fairly sure they're basically sleeping through it now. She doesn't mind, hates the thought of disturbing their sleep.

"Always the same," she whispers. "I'm stuck there and I can't get out."

"But you are out, Isabelle," he reminds her.

"Yeah, I…I know that," she says, but she can't look at him. "I just…sometimes…"

"Are you still afraid somebody will send you back there?" Archie asks, and Isabelle closes her eyes, gives a brief nod. Of course she's afraid; three months is nothing, it's _nothing_ compared to the ten long years of her incarceration. Archie doesn't speak for a minute, and Isabelle clasps her hands tightly together. "Have you had any more encounters with the Mayor?" he asks eventually.

"No," says Isabelle, and she's thankful for it. Every day she's expected Regina to waltz into the library and find some fault, find some excuse to fire her at the very least.

But…but she remembers what Mr Gold had said, that night in his home. 'She won't get you', he'd said. Between him and Archie, she does feel a little safer, a little more secure. Part of it is probably due to how little she's seen Regina, and her father, but not all.

A little safer, but somehow no less afraid.

"It's not wrong, to still be scared," Archie tells her. "Nothing you're feeling is wrong, Isabelle." He often says that, that her feelings are valid, that everything she's thinking and feeling is understandable and acceptable. It usually helps, usually reminds her that she's okay, she's doing fine. But today isn't one of those days, today it just makes her feel...

"I'm tired of being afraid," she says, opening her eyes again, the words spilling out from her mouth so quickly she's not sure he'll be able to understand. "I can't stop but I'm so _sick_ of it. I want to be able to walk down the street without being afraid somebody's going to jump on me and stick me full of drugs and take me back there!"

She's almost panting when she finishes, lifts her hands to cover her face. Archie is silent for long moments, lets her regain her composure.

"I just want it to stop," she says at last. "I just want it to be gone."

"Do you think it ever will be entirely gone?" Archie asks, and Isabelle shakes her head. No, it will always be there, a knife in her heart, twisting until she can't bear it any longer. Archie nods, considers his words. Isabelle lowers her hands to her lap, bites her lip. She's pretty sure she knows what he's going to ask next, and she _has_ thought about it, but she doesn't think she has an answer for him.

"Have you thought about your father?" he asks her, and Isabelle nods.

"I don't know," she says. "I think…I think maybe…" She shrugs, can't meet his eyes. "I guess some of both," she whispers.

"Okay," says Archie, nodding. "That's good, Isabelle. It's good to recognise how you're feeling. And of course it's complicated. Humans are complicated." Isabelle nods miserably; it might be good to recognise how she's feeling, but it doesn't _feel_ any better than before. "Do you think," Archie says then, "that you'll stop being afraid if you don't confront him?"

Isabelle shivers. "I can't," she says. "I – I just can't."

"I'm not asking you to," says Archie quickly. "I'm not even suggesting it. I'm just asking the question."

That eases her worry, and Isabelle leans back, considers the question. Can she ever stop being afraid, she asks herself, if she doesn't confront her father with what he'd done? How he'd hurt her? Possibly not. And yet the very thought of it makes her want to run, makes her want to find somewhere or someone to keep her safe.

She thinks, for a moment, of Mr Gold. Just for a moment, just long enough to be aware that she seems to think of him as safe. Emma would berate her for it, she knows, and certainly Emma is just as determined as he to keep her safe. And yet…

"No," she says eventually. "No, I won't. But…I just can't, Dr Hopper. At least…not yet." She hugs herself, glances up at him. "You're right," she says. "It's not going to go away if I can't face him. If I can be brave enough to do that…but I can't."

"Not yet, perhaps," Archie says with a slight smile. "But I think you underestimate yourself, Isabelle. Remember how you were three months ago. You're doing things now that you would have been too scared to do then."

Isabelle nods; he's right, of course. There is so much she does now without that constant, nagging fear spoiling her enjoyment of it. She is working, which was something she'd never thought she'd be able to do. She's got friends, and she's slowly becoming able to go into public, crowded spaces. Not often, but sometimes. She can sleep in the dark and she can, sometimes, walk down the street with her head held high.

She is attracted to someone, and that's a milestone she's cradling close to her for now. Nothing has happened, and perhaps nothing will happen, but it's a warm flame in her heart, burning back the terror and the anxiety when she thinks of it.

"You're right," she says. "I'm a lot less scared than I was. But I'm not really sure that's saying much."

"You're not letting the fear stop you, though," Archie points out. "Okay, maybe in some things," he concedes when she looks at him with a raised eyebrow. "But a lot less than you were. You're not letting fear paralyse you anymore. I really can't tell you enough how good it is that you're able to cope with working."

Isabelle manages a small, proud smile. "I never thought it would happen," she admits.

"You're braver than you think you are, Isabelle."

"Mr Gold said that, too," says Isabelle, without thinking, and feels her cheeks heat as Archie looks at her inquiringly. "Um. That time we were in Granny's," she says, fumbling for the right words.

Archie nods slowly. "Yes, I was going to ask if you'd seen him again," he says. "You seemed to like him."

"Yeah." Isabelle twists her hands together, drops her gaze. "He invited me to supper, a few weeks back," she says after a moment. She doesn't look up, doesn't want to see Archie's surprise. "He's…I know what people say about him, and I'm sure they're right. But he's not like that with me."

"Well," says Archie after a moment, "on one thing, at least, I'm in agreement with him. You really are much braver than you give yourself credit for, Isabelle." He glances up at the clock on the wall, turns back to her. "I'm afraid time's up," he says. "I'll try to come and see you at the library this week. It'll be good to see my star patient in action."

Isabelle has to laugh at that; she wouldn't describe herself as a star anything, but she knows Archie means it. He's so proud of how far she's come, and the pride is a little infectious – it gives her a little more confidence every time he reminds her how much she's accomplished in what's really not very long.

"Alright," she says. "I'll look forward to it. I'll find a really good book for you."


	12. Chapter 12

Title: Of Dreams and Awakenings

Rating: T

Word count: ~51k

Characters: Belle/Isabelle French, Mr Gold/Rumplestiltskin, Mary Margaret, Emma Swan, Archie Hopper, Henry Mills, Regina Mills, Moe French, various other Storybrooke characters.

Pairing: Belle/Rumplstiltskin (Isabelle/Mr Gold)

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Once Upon A Time' does not belong to me.

* * *

"Dammit, dammit, dammit," mutters Isabelle as the keys slip through her fingers. It's late, almost dark, and it's pouring with rain – the skies had opened when she was halfway to the library, and she'd not brought even a jacket with her, let alone an umbrella. She's absolutely soaked, and her fingers are so cold and numb that she can't manage the key properly.

She's taken to bringing her course materials with her to the library, because it's not that busy, and she seems to spend a lot of time sitting waiting for somebody to come in – and today she'd been in such a hurry leaving, due back at the apartment to help Henry with his English homework, that she'd left all her notes behind.

She bends over, retrieves the keys, tries to put the correct one in the lock. But her hands are shaking, and she can't quite manage it. She curses again, kicks the door in a fit of bad temper.

"Miss French, whatever are you doing?"

Despite the rain, despite how cold she is and how cross she is with herself, Isabelle smiles as she turns to see Mr Gold. He is dressed for the weather, holding an umbrella in the hand that isn't holding his cane.

"Mostly, I'm kicking myself," she says, pushing wet hair out of her eyes. "I left my notes here, and I can't get the door open."

"And your aversion to umbrellas?" he says with a raised eyebrow, stepping towards her and plucking the keys from her hand. He reaches past her, puts the key in the lock and turns it.

"It wasn't raining when I set out," she tries to explain.

"I see," he says, and she thinks he's smiling as he ushers her into the dark library and closes up his umbrella. "You'll catch a cold if you're not careful, Miss French."

"Oh, are we back to Miss French?" she complains, reaching for the light switch. "I've told you to call me Isabelle." She goes to the desk, looks down at her pile of notes and makes a face. Of course she hasn't got a bag, and she's so wet she's afraid of picking the notes up.

"So you have," he says, close behind her, and she glances over her shoulder, offers him a smile. "I hadn't forgotten," he adds, and his gaze flickers across her, makes her shiver in a way that doesn't have anything to do with the cold.

Then he glances away, down at the notes on the desk. "You came out and risked a cold for some papers?" he asks, disapproval evident, and Isabelle shrugs, goes around the desk and opens a drawer. There's some plastic bags there, which will hopefully be enough to keep her notes safe.

"It's for my GED," she explains. "I never graduated, you see." She carefully manoeuvres the notes into a bag, and then puts that bag into a second one. She glances up at him, offers a smile. "You were going to come and see me," she reminds him. "The library's been open a fortnight. I've been looking forward to it."

"Have you?" There's something pleased in his voice, although his face is a deliberate blank. "I do apologise. If I'd known you were so eager, I would have come sooner, of course."

"I didn't mean – I mean, of course, I know you're busy," Isabelle falters. "I didn't meant to make you think…" She shrugs, feels awkward, but she thinks he understands – hopes he understands.

Then she shivers again, cold water dripping down her collar, clothing plastered to her body.

"My car is just down the road," Mr Gold says then. "Will you let me drive you home? You really shouldn't go back out there without a coat, at least." He pauses for a moment, gaze flickering across her. "Really, Miss French, you're soaked through."

"Isabelle," she insists. "Please." He shrugs, doesn't answer. "And yes, thank you," she adds, "that would be great. But I'm soaking, your car – I'll get the seat wet."

"Here," he says, and he leans his umbrella up against the wall, unbuttons his coat. "Believe me, dearie, you're far more important than the car," he adds, and Isabelle flushes, pleased at the confession, pleased he's said it. He steps towards her, offers the coat, and Isabelle puts it on, slides her arms into the sleeves and laughs at how big it is on her.

It smells like him, she realises – and wonders how she knows what he smells like. But it's a familiar scent somehow, and comforting.

"There," he says softly, "much better." He reaches out, adjusts the collar, and Isabelle holds her breath. He's close to her, so close, she could just…

But she's scared, and she drops her gaze, even though his hand lingers. She's scared and hates herself for it, but she can't remember the last time she kissed anybody, can't remember the last time anybody wanted to kiss her.

"Oh, Belle," he murmurs, and Isabelle pulls back from him, startled. For a moment she can't see him – for a moment there's _someone else_ standing before her, someone with Mr Gold's eyes and a wider smile.

"Why – why did you call me that?" she asks, shakily. "Nobody's ever…I don't…" Nobody's ever called her that, she wants to say, except…except she's not sure that's true. It feels _familiar_. Just like Henry's book and the picture of the spinning wheel, just like Mr Gold himself.

It feels natural. But she's sure nobody's ever called her that before.

Mr Gold's shaken too, she can see, although he's trying not to show it. He steps away from her, creates distance between them, goes to retrieve his umbrella.

"My apologies," he says, smooth and distant once more. "Won't happen again."

"No, I – " She cuts herself off, uncertain and afraid. She's sure she's made a mistake, sure she's pushed him away when she didn't mean to. "Please," she says, stretches a hand out to him. "Please don't…"

Please don't go away, she means, but she can't quite say it. Mr Gold turns back to her, eyes narrowed as he glances from her face to her outstretched hand. She can't tell what he's thinking, can't tell if he understands what she wants to say.

"Don't forget your notes," he says at last, and Isabelle bites her lip hard enough to hurt. But she picks up her notes, holds them close to her chest, follows him to the door. She turns off the light and they step outside; the rain is heavier than before, and she's glad of his coat, thick and warm. Her fingers are warmer now and she manages to turn the key in the lock, puts the keychain into the pocket of her jeans.

Mr Gold opens his umbrella, and she has to step close to him to be under its cover. He offers his arm, and she links hers through it, leans against him just a little. He doesn't comment on it, leads her away from the library, down the street towards his car.

He doesn't speak, and neither does she; and anyway, the rain is fierce and heavy and loud, any conversation would have to be half-shouted to be heard.

When they reach the car he holds the door open for her, and Isabelle finds herself once again charmed by his manners. He might pretend otherwise, she thinks, but at heart he's a gentleman. He treats her like she's a lady, like she's worthy of such treatment, and it's nice to feel like that.

She watches through the window as he walks around the car, huddles into his coat, smells sandalwood and wet wool. Then he gets in, putting the cane down beside his seat, and he glances at her.

"I'm afraid I left my keys in the pocket," he tells her. "If you wouldn't mind?" Isabelle nods, puts her hand into the pocket of the coat, finds the keys and passes them over. His fingers brush against hers, and she's sure it's deliberate but doesn't say anything about it. He starts the engine, hesitates for a moment before moving the car away from the kerb.

It's not a long drive, but Isabelle savours every moment of it, commits every sensory impression to memory. The feel of the coat around her; the smell of it. The rain on the windscreen and her notes, wrapped in plastic bags, on her lap. Mr Gold next to her, focused on the road but she catches him glancing at her every few minutes.

Once again she's struck by the sense that he's afraid she'll disappear if he looks away for too long. And yet, she reminds herself, he's never sought her out. He could have come to see her at any point over the past two weeks – she'd invited him to, after all.

Perhaps she's completely misreading the whole thing.

He pulls up outside the apartment building and Isabelle glances up at it, sees the lights on. Emma and Mary Margaret are probably worrying about her, she realises – but she doesn't want to get out of the car, not just yet.

"I don't mind," she says, when it's clear he won't speak first. "I was just…startled." She glances at him, finds him staring straight ahead. Brave, she thinks. Be brave. "I quite like it," she admits, and now he does glance at her, just briefly.

"Do you," he says, not quite a question, but Isabelle nods anyway. "Well."

Isabelle pulls her arms from the sleeves of his coat reluctantly, picks up her plastic-wrapped notes. It's something, she thinks, but she's not sure what that something is. There's so much hidden in him, and she thinks it would take an eternity to peel back all the layers. She's only known him a few weeks, only met him a handful of times. Far too soon, she thinks, to be trying to understand what he's thinking and feeling.

She wishes she'd been brave enough to kiss him earlier, but knows she's not really ready for it. Not yet.

"Tomorrow's Saturday," she says, and she turns in the car seat, angles herself towards him. Mr Gold rests his hands on the steering wheel, but he's looking at her now. Amused, sardonic, and she's not surprised when he answers with sarcasm.

"Is it really?" he says. "Well, thank you for letting me know."

Isabelle huffs, rolls her eyes. "I _mean_," she says, "that the library closes at midday tomorrow."

"Ah." He nods slowly, thoughtfully, and Isabelle waits. She lets hope flutter in her stomach, in her heart. This is perhaps not the wisest course of action, but she's never heard that hearts are wise. "I suppose," he says, "if you wanted to present me with some more of your delicious baked goods, I might find myself at home tomorrow afternoon."

A grin creeps across Isabelle's face, uncontainable, and she thinks she sees an answering smile lurking behind his eyes.

"You only want me for my baking," she teases, amazed at her own daring – amazed at the sudden, heated look on his face. It's gone before she can do more than draw breath, but it was undeniably there.

"Oh no, dearie," he says, softer than she's ever heard him before. "Not just your baking." He doesn't expand, doesn't add anything to it, and Isabelle is blushing. Mouth dry, heart beating just a little too fast, she hugs her notes to herself and stares at him.

Finally he nods at her, reaches across to open the door. His arm brushes hers, but he doesn't linger. "You'll excuse me for not getting out," he says. "The rain. You understand."

"Yes, of course," Isabelle mutters. The rain's coming in, and she doesn't want to let his car get wet, can't stay here any longer. "Thank you for the ride," she says. "And the coat." He nods, smiles faintly, and Isabelle slides out of the car, flinches as the rain hits her. She turns, leans down to look at him one more time. "I'll see you tomorrow," she says, and his smile deepens, just a little.

"Tomorrow, then," he agrees. "Good evening, Miss French."

She shuts the car door; it's too wet to watch him leave, so she goes into the apartment building, shakes herself off. Tomorrow, and she's excited, she realises. For perhaps the first time since leaving the hospital, she's really excited about something.


	13. Chapter 13

Title: Of Dreams and Awakenings

Rating: T

Word count: ~51k

Characters: Belle/Isabelle French, Mr Gold/Rumplestiltskin, Mary Margaret, Emma Swan, Archie Hopper, Henry Mills, Regina Mills, Moe French, various other Storybrooke characters.

Pairing: Belle/Rumplstiltskin (Isabelle/Mr Gold)

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Once Upon A Time' does not belong to me.

* * *

It's quarter to noon, and Isabelle is just finishing re-shelving some returned books when he arrives. She doesn't see him at first, just hears the door opening and then closing again a moment later.

"We're closing soon," she calls out. "Do you need help finding anything?" She comes around a bookshelf, finds herself face to face with Moe French. She feels ice down her spine, feels made of spun sugar or blown glass, feels like she's going to shatter into a hundred different pieces.

It has been fifteen weeks, three days and a handful of hours since Isabelle last saw her father. She thinks now it could be fifteen _years_ and it would be too soon.

"Isabelle," he says, and she shivers, takes a step back.

"What do you want?" she asks, her voice a hoarse whisper, sandpaper and rough edges. She clears her throat, wraps her cardigan tightly around herself. "What – what do you want?" she asks again.

"I wanted to see you," says Moe, and he's all pain and misery, all heart-break and remorse, but Isabelle can't stomach it.

"I don't want to see you," she says. Moe stretches out a hand to her, and she flinches. For the first time in a while she feels the urge to run, to hide. But she can't – she's the librarian, she has to stay here until midday and then lock up. It's her job, her responsibility. She can't leave just because…just because she's afraid.

She can't. She mustn't.

"Izzy," says Moe helplessly, and she hugs herself, shakes her head.

"Nobody calls me that," she says. Curt, crisp, because she has no interest in being even a little polite to this man. Not after what he did to her. "I'm busy," she says. "And I have _nothing_ to say to you." She turns away, gains some measure of escape by putting her desk between them.

"Izzy, I just want to talk," says Moe French, and he follows her but has the good sense not to step too close, to stay on the other side of the desk. "I haven't seen you in three months – I just want to talk to you."

"You didn't come to see me for ten _years_!" Isabelle snaps, and takes a moment to control her breathing, scrambles to control her feelings as well. She turns her back on him, can't bear to look at him. To see the face of the man who'd betrayed her so completely, hurt her so badly.

"Izzy – Isabelle," he corrects himself. "Please. I know…I know I've made mistakes, but I'm your father, surely I deserve –"

"Deserve?" Isabelle whirls around, stares at him. "Do you really want to talk about what you deserve?" They look at each other, father and daughter, and Isabelle sees how he's lost weight, sees the signs of stress and worry on his face. She wonders if it's because of her, and wonders if she cares.

"Izzy, I had no choice," says her father, and it's clear he's agonised, but his agony can't erase ten years, can't restore her to what she would have been if she hadn't spent a _decade_ locked in a psychiatric ward unnecessarily.

"No, _I_ had no choice," she spits at him, anger rising hot in her throat, and she thinks anger's better than fear, thinks it's safer. "I had no choice when you let them take me away and lock me up! Do you have _any_ idea what they did to me in there?"

"Izzy –"

"Don't call me that!" she shouts, and Moe nods, holds up his hands as if to show he's harmless. But he's not, she thinks. He might look it, might look like a defeated man, but he's anything but harmless to her.

"Isabelle," he says. "Isabelle, please. I just…I just want to talk to you."

"No," she says flatly. She's shaking, her hands trembling at her sides, her breath short and choked. "No."

"Now, Miss French, I'm sure you don't really mean that."

Isabelle freezes; she feels like she can't breathe. To be faced with _one_ of the people who put her in the hospital is bad enough, but both of them together…

Brave, she tells herself. She _wills_ herself to be brave. Archie has promised she'll be safe, and so has Emma, and Mr Gold's fierce, determined words must give her strength.

"Mayor Mills," she says, licks dry lips. "I'm sorry, I don't see how it's actually any of your business."

Regina Mills steps through the door, comes into the library, saunters up to the desk. "The welfare of this town is my business," she says, sour lemons beneath her smile, danger in her eyes. Isabelle takes a step backwards, finds herself up against the re-shelving trolley. "That includes the people in it, which obviously includes your father," Regina continues. "I'm concerned that your continued refusal to see your only family is a sign that you're not as well as you think you are, Miss French."

"I – I'm not – "

"No," says Regina with a pitying smile. "That's becoming quite clear." She glances at Moe, who looks uncertain, unsure. Isabelle isn't sure if he's complicit in this, as he was before, but she can't trust that he'll stand up for her – can't trust him at all.

She has to find her own strength, but she can't. She can't remember Archie's promises or Emma's protection, can't think of anything except this woman with her scarlet smile and evil eyes.

She remembers long years where Regina Mills was her only visitor, peering at her through the slot in the door. She remembers that.

"Your father and I have only ever wanted what's best for you," Regina says then, poisoned words that Isabelle doesn't believe for a second. She's not innocent, not naïve; she lost all that one day long ago when…when…

When she kissed somebody and was sent away, she thinks, only that's not right. She'd kissed a handful of boys in high school, but never been rejected. She lost her naivety the day the orderlies came for her – that's right, that's what happened.

"You don't," she manages at last. "You put me in that place and you left me to _rot_."

"Now, Isabelle, you were being treated," says her father, but he has no idea, has no _clue_, and Isabelle chokes on a bitter laugh. She hadn't been treated. She'd been drugged, pills forced down her throat and needles stuck in her arms until she could hardly remember her own name at times, but there had been no treatment. No attempt to make her better – if she'd even been ill in the first place.

"It worries me that you can't remember how much they were trying to help you," says Regina. There's something of satisfaction about her, something of vindictive pleasure and it makes Isabelle feel sick. She can't think what she ever did to this woman to create such enmity, such glee in her viciousness.

"They weren't helping me," Isabelle says, and she clenches her hands into fists to try to stop the trembling. "And I haven't forgotten _anything_."

Regina gives her another pitying look, turns to Moe. "You remember, lack of memory was one of her symptoms before," she tells him. "She could never remember the violence or the self-harming."

"Izzy, sweetheart, I just want to make sure you're okay," says Moe, and he steps closer, as if he's going to come around the desk towards her. Isabelle shakes her head, lifts a hand, wants to ward him off but knows she can't. Knows she's got nothing to fight him with. "If you're forgetting stuff – look, Dr Hopper's a decent guy, he needs to know about this."

"I'm not forgetting anything!" Isabelle snaps. "I remember _everything_, Dad! Everything you did – everything she did!"

"I haven't done anything to you, dear," says Regina, and Isabelle thinks, wildly, that she _hates_ that word coming from the Mayor. When Mr Gold uses it, it's an endearment. Regina uses it as a weapon, a sharp dagger between the ribs to cut down her opponents. "This paranoia is deeply troubling," she continues. "I really think we'd better get you seen by a doctor."

"I really think not."

Emma – and Isabelle gasps in relief, feels her knees buckle beneath her and grabs wildly for a chair. Emma is here, Emma will make the Mayor go away. Emma's the white knight on a white horse, charging to the rescue.

"Isabelle, are you okay?" she asks, pushes Moe aside and comes to her side. A hand at her elbow, helping her to the chair at the desk. "Sit down."

"I'm alright," Isabelle whispers.

"Yeah?" Emma surveys her, nods just once and turns to her persecutors. "Mr French, I think Isabelle's made her wishes quite clear," she says, polite but firm, a hint of trouble in her voice. "She doesn't want to see you."

"Mr French is Isabelle's father," says Regina, and she's sneering a little. She doesn't like Emma, for more reasons than Isabelle really understands. Some of it's Henry, of course, but there are other things, undercurrents of hostility and history that ripple through their interactions. "He has a right to see her."

"As far as I'm concerned he doesn't," says Emma. Hands on her hips, sheriff's badge gleaming at her waist, and Isabelle has absolute faith in her. Emma won't let Moe get her, won't let Regina get her. "She's an adult and she doesn't lack the capacity to make her own decisions, no matter what you'd like to believe."

"He's her father," says Regina again. "Her only relative. He's just concerned for her health – we both are."

"Well, Isabelle's fine," says Emma, lifting her chin, defiant and resolute. "And as I'm sure you're aware, Madam Mayor, Dr Hopper has testified to the judge that she's no danger to herself or anyone else."

"I just want to speak to her," says Moe, pathetic in his repetition, and Isabelle thinks perhaps he's telling the truth, perhaps that is all he wants. Perhaps the Mayor is manipulating him, using him as she uses so many other people. It wouldn't surprise her, but it doesn't change her mind. She won't – can't – speak to her father. Not yet, at least. Not for a long while.

"Mr French, she has no interest in seeing you," Emma tells him. "And Madam Mayor, given your involvement in Miss French's case and the lack of transparency around her hospitalisation, I'd think seriously before coming near her again."

"Are you threatening me?" Regina demands, and she sounds almost amused. "Be very careful, Miss Swan."

"It could constitute harassment," says Emma, not answering directly. "And as you know, I take my job very seriously."

They stare at each other for a moment, white knight and black queen, and Isabelle shivers. She can't imagine how anyone could beat Regina – except, perhaps, Emma. Stalwart and brave, fierce in defence of what she sees as right, Emma can withstand anything and anyone.

"Mr French, we should go," says Regina flatly at last. "We're obviously not welcome." She turns and stalks out, and Moe looks at Isabelle pleadingly one last time before following in her wake.

Emma comes back to her, wraps her arms around her and holds tight. "It's okay," she whispers. "It's okay. They're gone."

"I – I have to lock up," Isabelle mutters, feels exhausted, confused. Shattered by the events of the past few minutes. "Is it twelve yet? I can't…I have to stay open until…"

"It's twelve," Emma assures her. "Get your stuff, I'll make sure everything's locked up."


	14. Chapter 14

Title: Of Dreams and Awakenings

Rating: T

Word count: ~51k

Characters: Belle/Isabelle French, Mr Gold/Rumplestiltskin, Mary Margaret, Emma Swan, Archie Hopper, Henry Mills, Regina Mills, Moe French, various other Storybrooke characters.

Pairing: Belle/Rumplstiltskin (Isabelle/Mr Gold)

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Once Upon A Time' does not belong to me.

* * *

She's still shaking two hours later when she leaves the apartment. Emma and Mary Margaret had tried to persuade her to stay at home – to call Archie and tell him what happened, and then spend the afternoon where they can see her, and make sure she's safe.

But Isabelle is expected, and despite Emma's valour, she knows there's nowhere safer for her to be than with Mr Gold.

Still, Mary Margaret comes with her, walks her to Mr Gold's house to make sure she arrives safely, makes her promise to either ask Mr Gold to drive her back, or call for Mary Margaret or Emma to come and collect her. It's a promise Isabelle doesn't mind making, because she's shaking and terrified still, even though everyone's promised she's safe.

Mr Gold opens the door before she reaches it, looks her over and his frown is deep and foreboding.

"What happened?" he demands, and Isabelle can't quite manage to speak. He shakes his head, ushers her inside. "Are you alright?" he asks, closing the front door behind her, gesturing for her to precede him into the lounge.

"I – no," she whispers, and she feels herself near tears, lifts her hands to cover her face. "No," she repeats, and in a moment she feels his hand on her shoulder. A sob chokes her, and she drops her hands, looks up at him. He's not that much taller than she is, she realises. He looks almost bewildered, as if he doesn't know how to deal with tears and anguish, and she tries to regain control. "Sorry," she mumbles. "I should probably – I'm being a nuisance."

"You're not a nuisance, dearie," he says gently. "What's happened?"

"I – she –"

She doesn't need to say more; Mr Gold comprehends immediately, and his gaze turns into stormy thunder.

"What did she do?" he demands, and Isabelle shrugs, wishes she were brave enough to lean into him, to demand he hold her and protect her. She wants it, in this moment she wants it more than anything else. But she does not feel brave right now. She feels scared, alone, vulnerable, and she wants him to hold her but isn't brave enough to ask for it. "Belle, please, you must tell me," he says, and Isabelle's breath catches in her throat.

"You called me Belle again," she whispers, and Mr Gold shakes his head, impatient, as if what he calls her doesn't matter.

"Slip of the tongue," he says. "Come and sit down. You're shaking."

"I haven't stopped," Isabelle confesses, lets him draw her to the couch. He sits down beside her, takes her hand, and she wants to smile because despite her fear, despite what a mess she is, he's holding her hand and she likes it.

"When did you see her?" he asks, and Isabelle has to think for a moment, has to tear her concentration away from the feel of his hand, warm and calloused, his thumb brushing back and forth ever-so-slightly across her skin.

"She came to the library," she says. "Well, my father came, and she was with him," she corrects herself. There's a snarl on his face, and Isabelle squeezes his hand gently. "I'm alright," she says. "I mean…I'm not, but…"

Mr Gold glances down at their joined hands, almost as if he hadn't realised he'd reached out to her. His mouth moves for a moment without words, and then he looks back at her, manages a thin smile.

"Go on," he says. So Isabelle tells him, slow and faltering, what had happened at the library. She tells him what her father said, what Mayor Mills said, tells him about Emma coming to her rescue just at the right moment, just before Isabelle fell apart completely. He sneers faintly at that, mutters something about heroic impulses, but then he laces his fingers through hers, the sneer fading away as he looks at her.

"And you're still shaking, two hours later," he murmurs. "I'll skin her alive."

Isabelle gives a startled laugh. "Well, I hope not," she says. "Wouldn't it be kind of messy?" He gives her a flash of a grin, and Isabelle stares for a moment, thinks she sees something else in him. Something hidden behind his face, something ancient and powerful. Then it's gone, and all she's aware of is the concern in his eyes, her hand in his.

"You're quite right," he says. "Perhaps something with a little more finesse." He looks her over once again, lips pressed together in a thin line. "I said she wouldn't get you, dearie," he reminds her. "I always keep my word."

Isabelle tilts her head, smiles a little. "I know," she says. "But don't you always ask for something in return? Isn't that the way it works?"

"As you pointed out, Miss French, we're not business associates," says Mr Gold, retreating back into formality, releasing her hand. Isabelle feels disappointed, wishes she could reach out and take his hand back. "Besides," he continues, "I may be mistaken, but I think I remember something about baked goods?"

She smiles properly then, widely. "I told you," she says. "You're just interested in my baking."

His gaze turns heated, just for a moment before it gentles into something softer, something fonder. "And I told you," he says, "there's far more to it than that." She thinks he wants to reach out again, thinks he wants to touch her again. She holds her breath for a moment, hoping and wishing with all her heart. But he doesn't, and Isabelle feels her bravery has been used up today.

He leans towards her, just a little, just enough for her heart to start beating faster. Then, with a faint, almost regretful smile, he leans back, rises and retrieves his cane.

"Tea?" he asks her, and Isabelle nods.

"Please," she says. "Can I help?"

He's amused, shakes his head. "I think I can manage," he says dryly. "Make yourself at home. I won't be long."

He leaves the lounge, goes through to the kitchen, and Isabelle gets up, goes at once to the bookcase in the corner. She's always drawn to books, and she spends a happy few minutes perusing the titles, learning about Mr Gold through the books he reads and chooses to keep in his home. History, art, law – all well-represented on the shelves. There are a few novels, mostly classics, and a couple of volumes on architecture. Fact rather than fiction, but a wide range.

She turns, intends to go back to the couch and her discarded bag, which holds a box full of white chocolate and raspberry cookies, but she stops. Something stops her, and Isabelle steps towards the glass-fronted cabinet, frowning as she looks at the cup on display there.

A cup she's seen before. She's absolutely sure she's seen that cup before, white with a blue print on it, a chip in the rim. She's sure she's seen it before, but she can't think when…

Can't think…

Dizzy, she staggers and catches herself against the back of a chair.

"Are you alright?"

"Yes," she says, glances over her shoulder to see him. The cane's hooked over his arm, he's limping slowly through with a tray of tea things, and she hurries to take it from him. She sets it down on the coffee table and can't help a glance back at the cabinet.

"Is something the matter?" he asks, and he follows her gaze. She turns back to him just in time to see his flinch, just in time to see the grief before he hides it away again. He hides so much, so much buried deep within, and she's barely scratched the surface.

"That cup," she says after a long moment. "I've seen it before."

"I doubt that," he says, almost careless. He sits down on the sofa again, leans forward to check the tea in the pot. "It's…a relic, you might say. A memento."

"No, I'm sure," says Isabelle. There's a sound in her ears, something like the sound of the sea, crashing all around her. Pressure in her head, and she closes her eyes, shakes herself. "I – I can't think where," she says faintly. "But I'm sure…"

"Come and have a cup of tea," he suggests. "You're still shaken."

"No, I – I…" Isabelle can't find the words, opens her eyes again and drifts to the sofa, sits down next to him and clasps her hands together tightly. "Yes," she says at last. "Yes, tea would be…I'm sorry, I don't know what…" She shakes her head, looks up at him. "But I'm _sure_ I've seen it," she says. "And that's not the first time this has happened. Henry has this book…"

"Yes, I've heard about Henry's book." He stirs milk into his tea, glances at her sidelong. "What in particular seemed familiar?"

"There was a picture," says Isabelle slowly, cradling her cup in her hands. "There was…it sounds crazy. I know I sound crazy."

"My dear, you're perfectly sane," says Mr Gold. "And believe me, I've met a few people who could test the definition of insanity." A flash of a grin, and he turns to face her, waits for an answer to his question. Isabelle licks her lips, considers him for a moment. Of all people, she thinks, he will not judge her. She's not sure why she thinks that, but it's true, a truth she feels deep in her heart.

"There was a picture of a spinning wheel," she tells him, and is a little scared by the surprise she glimpses on his face for a moment before he conceals it. "I'd never seen the book before – I didn't know the stories – but I knew that picture."

"That…is very strange," he murmurs. "But I'm sure it's just a coincidence. Sometimes we think we've seen something but it's just an illusion. A sense of deja-vu, perhaps."

"No, this is…this is different." Isabelle sighs, sips her tea. "I'm sorry, I'm not…quite right, today." She puts her tea down, reaches for her bag and pulls out the box of cookies. "Emma and Mary Margaret wanted me to stay home," she goes on, "but I…I wanted to come."

"I'm very pleased that you did," he says.

"Even though I'm a complete mess?" she says with a smile. The teacup, and its familiarity, is fading from her mind, slipping through her grasp, and she doesn't care. She lets it go, concentrates on sitting here in this room with this man.

"Hardly a mess," he says, and there's a dangerous glint in his eyes, the darkness she'd seen earlier when he'd muttered a threat against Regina Mills. It should make Isabelle feel scared, but instead all she feels is _safe_.

"I'm glad I came," she says. "I…I'm…" She shrugs, flushing, opens the box of cookies and puts them on the coffee table. "You'd tell me, wouldn't you?" she says, not quite looking at him. "If I were being too…if you want me to go? I know I'm not…I mean, I'm sane, but I'm not…always quite right."

"Oh, dearie, I don't want you to go." He takes her hand again, brushes his thumb across her knuckles, and she shivers. "And as far as I'm concerned, you're just fine." She lifts her eyes to his, feels heat curling in her stomach and knows he feels it too. "But I would tell you," he murmurs. "And in return…tell me if we're not on the same page, dearie?"

"I will," she whispers. "But…but I think we are."


	15. Chapter 15

Title: Of Dreams and Awakenings

Rating: T

Word count: ~51k

Characters: Belle/Isabelle French, Mr Gold/Rumplestiltskin, Mary Margaret, Emma Swan, Archie Hopper, Henry Mills, Regina Mills, Moe French, various other Storybrooke characters.

Pairing: Belle/Rumplstiltskin (Isabelle/Mr Gold)

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Once Upon A Time' does not belong to me.

* * *

Isabelle hums as she works, wandering around her tiny bedroom, tidying things away and dusting as she goes. It's Sunday and she isn't working today – is thankful for it, after what had happened yesterday at the library – and she's planning on cleaning her bedroom, doing her allotted weekly chores around the rest of the apartment, and then…

And then, she thinks, with a shiver of happiness…then she is going to go out and see Mr Gold. Nothing explicit had been said, no plans set in stone, but he'd mentioned – quite casual except for the glint in his eye – that he'd be home by late afternoon today.

She wants to think it's all too much, too soon. She'd stayed at his house for two hours yesterday afternoon, and their conversation had ranged over diverse topics – but always with his eyes fixed upon her, the feeling that she was at the centre of his attention. It is a heady feeling, and Isabelle thinks perhaps she should be a little afraid of it.

But he likes her; he desires her. Despite everything, despite the ten years, despite the way she reacts – and over-reacts – to the simplest things, despite…

Despite everything, he wants her. And Isabelle likes him, is attracted to him. She wants to see what's there, to peel back the outer layers and discover the richness within this strange new relationship she is forging.

"You sound bouncy," observes Emma from the doorway, and Isabelle sends her a grin, pauses and pushes her hair out of her eyes.

"I feel good," she says. "Today is a good day."

"Given how you were feeling yesterday, I'm pleased," says Emma, and Isabelle stifles a sigh, knows what's coming. "I guess that has something to do with Mr Gold?"

Isabelle puts her duster down, drops it onto the bookcase and hugs herself as she turns to face Emma properly. "Yes," she says, refusing to be anything less than honest. "Yes, I suppose it does."

"Isabelle," Emma sighs. She leans against the doorframe, presses her lips together tightly as she observes Isabelle. She sighs again, shakes her head. "I don't want to sound like I'm patronising you," she says quietly. "I really don't mean it to come across that way. You're an adult, and you know what you're doing."

"But?"

"But he's dangerous, Isabelle," says Emma, stepping into the room, her expression anxious, concerned. "He's – I've never met anybody who sets my teeth on edge like he does."

"I'm not afraid of him," says Isabelle softly. "And I'm afraid of so much, Emma." She closes her eyes for a moment, thinks of that dangerous darkness that she knows is in him. "He's not…he's not dangerous to me."

"How do you know that?" Emma asked, frustrated. "How can you possibly tell?"

"Because he's nothing like Regina Mills."

"Nobody's like Regina, thank goodness," Emma says with a roll of her eyes. "But you can see why I'm concerned, can't you?"

Isabelle glances away, considers her words for a long moment. "Would you be concerned if I were anyone else?" she asks at last. "If I hadn't…if I weren't…"

"Of course I would," says Emma at once, and Isabelle has to believe her – has to when Emma's answer is so quick and clearly so heartfelt. "You're my friend, and I'd be just as concerned about any of my friends getting involved with someone like him."

"Someone like him," Isabelle murmurs. "I don't – I don't think there _is_anyone quite like him, Emma." She goes to the bed, sits down, drops her hands into her lap. "I'm sure you're right," she says. "But I…"

"But what, Isabelle?" Emma asks, coming to join her on the bed. "Look…do you like him? I mean, really like him? Enough to ignore the things he does?"

"I don't know," Isabelle has to admit. "I haven't…really seen any of that. I know I haven't, I know he's…he's making sure I only see the nice stuff. But isn't that what dating is about?"

Emma's silent for a moment, takes a breath. "Dating," she repeats at last. "Is that what you're doing?"

"Isn't it?" Isabelle asks, glancing at Emma. "Isn't that what it is? I haven't dated anyone in over ten years, Emma – is that what we're doing?"

"I think it might be," says Emma slowly. "It…certainly sounds like you're dating. I just…can't get my head around Mr Gold dating." Isabelle is startled into a laugh, and after a moment Emma joins her. It _is_ strange, thinking of Mr Gold dating. He's not anything like the kind of boys she dated in high school – he's so much older, for one thing, so much more dignified. Dating is…she tends to think it's for younger people, somehow.

Courting, her mind supplies. Courting is more appropriate. That seems to fit better with what she and Mr Gold are doing.

"I guess what I'm saying," says Emma, "is that…I just want you to be safe and happy."

It warms her, this friendly concern – and it's not patronising, as Emma was concerned she would sound. It's friendship and love and caring and it warms Isabelle, makes her feel secure. Perhaps Emma's right and this is not the right thing, not the right path for her. Perhaps Emma's wrong. Perhaps, perhaps. So much is uncertain, and usually Isabelle hates that, hates any uncertainty in her life.

But she doesn't feel uncertain with this, she realises – with Mr Gold and her burgeoning relationship with him. She feels…safe. Certainly safe, that's something he elicits even when he seems at his most dangerous. Safe and loved, although it's too soon for that, far too soon.

"I like him," she says. "A lot. And I think…no. I know. He likes me too."

"Are you sure?" Emma asks in hushed tones. "I mean…you're not just…"

Isabelle thinks of how he'd held her hand, thinks of what he'd said to her. He'd made it clear how he feels, she thinks, made it clear the path he wants to go down with her. He wants to share her story, no matter what that might be, no matter how troubled she is. How scared, how damaged.

"I'm sure," she says. "He's…" She remembers how he looks at her, just occasionally. That heated look, as if he wants everything she's willing to give and many things she's never given to anyone else.

"You're blushing," Emma tells her, and Isabelle lifts her hands to hot cheeks, flushes further as Emma laughs good-naturedly. "Well, that answers one question, anyway!"

"I don't – I'm not – " Isabelle's flustered, can't find the words, can't refute Emma's insinuation and doesn't really want to. This is part of this new relationship she's forging, and she treasures it. She treasures the attraction she's feeling because for so long she'd thought that was lost to her. Ten years of nobody and no way to feel anything like that, of being emotionally and sexually suppressed by the drugs and the isolation, and now…

And now she is attracted to Mr Gold – she doesn't even know his first name, she realises, but she's attracted to him. She wants him, wants to be with him, and she thinks – hopes, perhaps, except it's not a hope. A hope is something kindled in a lonely heart, a hope is something that may have little basis in reality.

This is not a hope; it's a certainty. She knows he feels the same. He wants to be with her, but he's taking his time, giving _her_ the time she needs. She's so damaged in so many ways – and some of the damage she knows will never be repaired, no matter what Archie or Emma or Mary Margaret say. Some of it goes too deep. But he's going to wait for her, he's going to let her take the time to repair what can be repaired. He won't push her into anything, as she suspects Emma fears.

"He understands," she says to her friend. "I don't know how, but…he really seems to understand a lot of what I'm feeling. The things I'm going through." She glances at Emma, curious. "Do you know if he's ever been…locked up?"

"He was in the holding cell for a while after he beat up your father," says Emma, characteristically blunt. "He doesn't have a criminal record apart from that, although I'm absolutely sure he should have." She shakes her head, shrugs a shoulder. "As far as I know, he's got no other experience of jail, or of…psychiatric wards. So I don't know how he understands."

"I guess it's enough that he does," murmurs Isabelle.

"I promise this is the last time I'll ask," Emma says then. "I'll believe you if you tell me it's all okay. But I have to ask. Are you sure he's not…manipulating you, or expecting things from you?" Isabelle inhales, and Emma reaches to take her hand, continues quickly. "He makes deals, Isabelle. That's what he does. He never does something for nothing. If you tell me your relationship isn't about that, I'll believe you. But I need to know."

"It's not," says Isabelle. "I…I know why you're concerned." She looks down at her hand in Emma's, thinks about Mr Gold holding her hand. "We've talked about it, you know," she says. "I think he was…trying to warn me off or something. He said…he said he hadn't asked anything of me yet. That he always collects. But he was testing me, I think." She lifts her gaze again, looks back at Emma's concerned expression. "He doesn't expect anything, he's not going to _ask_ me for anything," she says, firm and clear. He wants things, of course he does, but not…not as a deal. Not as a return for all he's done for her.

He wants her because she is who she is, not because there's something in it for him. He wants her because she is…she is Belle. To him, she is Belle, and that's…

There's pressure in her head, just as there had been yesterday when she'd tried to remember how she knows that chipped cup in Mr Gold's display cabinet. It's not pain, not quite, but a distinct pressure, like the atmosphere around her has changed, as if she's in a plane and her ears need to pop.

There's a barrier and she can't get through it, but she knows if she could just reach through – if she could just grasp hold of _something_ – the whole thing would fall apart.

She shakes her head, the idea fading as quickly as it had arrived, and she smiles at Emma.

"He doesn't want anything from me," she says. "Not like that. He's…I mean, of course he wants things, but…"

"I don't want to know," says Emma with a grimace. "I mean, I'm glad you've found someone you like, but…I don't want to know. I don't want to think about it. There's a bit of an age gap, you know."

"Not that much," says Isabelle with a shrug, although she doesn't know his precise age. Still, she doesn't feel young compared to him – he doesn't feel old to her. "I'm not exactly like most other people my age," she adds. "I couldn't be, you know."

"You're fine the way you are," says Emma, a blessing and a confirmation, and Isabelle finds she needs to hear that; her smile widens. "And like I said, I don't like it – but I won't ask again." She releases Isabelle's hand, stands up. "You were right that day in Granny's," she says softly. "You're not crazy, and you're not stupid. Just remember, I'm here if you need me."

"Thank you," says Isabelle. "You're a good friend, Emma."

"Hey, anybody would be, with your baking," says Emma, teasing. "I guess that's how you're winning Gold over, huh?"

Isabelle laughs, shakes her head, stands up and goes to continue her dusting.


	16. Chapter 16

Title: Of Dreams and Awakenings

Rating: T

Word count: ~51k

Characters: Belle/Isabelle French, Mr Gold/Rumplestiltskin, Mary Margaret, Emma Swan, Archie Hopper, Henry Mills, Regina Mills, Moe French, various other Storybrooke characters.

Pairing: Belle/Rumplstiltskin (Isabelle/Mr Gold)

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Once Upon A Time' does not belong to me.

* * *

"You look lovely," says Mr Gold, and Isabelle finds herself blushing, brushes a hand over her skirt self-consciously. She'd showered and changed after cleaning her room, and she's wearing a blue sundress that is a little too baggy, with a white cardigan over the top – the weather is mild today, but it will turn colder as the afternoon wears into evening.

"Thank you," she manages to say, before the silence stretches out too long. "It's not – I'm not interrupting anything, am I?" It's nearly five o'clock, a little later than she'd intended to get here, and she's nervous now – made nervous, perhaps, by his frank, appraising stare when he'd answered the door to her.

"Of course not," he says, dismissing her concern and her nerves in one. He doesn't smile, not quite, but there's warmth in his eyes. "I'm glad to see you." Isabelle beams, steps into the house and waits as he closes the door. "I'm doing a spot of gardening, before it gets dark," he says, gestures at the apron he's wearing over his usual attire – no jacket, but suit trousers and a dark red shirt, the sleeves rolled up a little to reveal his forearms. "But you're quite welcome to come out with me."

"I'd love to," says Isabelle, and she follows him through the house to the back door, out into the garden that's larger than she pictured. There's a lawn, and flower beds; a path winds from the back door out across the lawn and around a bend, hidden from sight by a large rose bush. It's neat but not aggressively so; there's enough wildness and disorderliness in the flower beds and the rose bushes to make it far more comfortable and _real_ than any regimented garden.

"It's beautiful," she says, glances up at him and catches a glimpse of a pleased smile. "Can I help?"

"I wouldn't dream of it," he says, retrieving trowel from a basket next to the back door. "It's just a bit of tidying, anyway. Nothing to it, really."

"Alright," says Isabelle agreeably, following him down the garden path, around the rose bush and to the herb garden that she hadn't been able to see from the back door. The smell is heady, even in early spring; Isabelle pauses by a rosemary bush and inhales its scent, smiles at it, smiles at the whole garden. His garden is lovely, and she glances at him, meets his eyes and loses her breath for a moment at the look in his eyes.

The moment passes, and Mr Gold lowers himself carefully to his knees, lays his cane aside and resumes his activities. Isabelle hesitates for a moment then goes to kneel beside him, gestures at the plant he's putting into the soil.

"What's that?" she asks, and his mouth quirks into a smile, all angles and sharpness.

"Always so inquisitive," he murmurs. "That, Miss French, is a mint plant. _Mentha piperita_, to be precise. I had a plant here before, but it didn't weather the winter."

"I like this," says Isabelle, gesturing around the garden. "I always wanted a herb garden, when I was a kid. And a vegetable garden. But Dad…" She trails off, can't think about it. Even thoughts of her childhood, when she was relatively happy, before the hospitalisation…even those thoughts are too painful to dwell on for long.

Mr Gold doesn't say anything, seems to realise that any words would be futile. He continues his work, digging a hole deep enough for the plant. Isabelle pulls herself together, collects her scattered thoughts and forces them aside. She watches as Mr Gold takes the new plant out of the plastic carton, gently frees its roots and then puts it into the ground. His hands are quick and efficient, even covered in soil. He is as easy here as in his pawnshop or his kitchen.

"You're staring," he comments, and there's a sly tilt to his mouth as he glances sidelong at her. "Am I so interesting, Miss French?"

"No," she says, flushing. "I mean – yes. You are." She can't quite meet his eyes, knows she's bad at this – she doesn't know how to flirt and tease, can't remember the lessons she'd hardly had a chance to learn about this kind of thing in high school. And Mr Gold is different to the boys she'd known then, anyway.

"Yes," she says again, and laughs at the freedom she feels, the ease that comes from simply admitting she finds him fascinating. "And you know it," she adds. "Don't tease me, it's not kind."

"I'm not a kind man, dearie," he reminds her, leaning back on his heels, rubbing his leg absently. She wonders if his leg hurts, kneeling down on the ground like this, but she knows his pride, at least a little. She won't ask about it, will let him ask for help when and if he wants it.

"You're kind enough," she says. She rests her hand on the grass, leans on her arm and folds her legs to one side. The sundress rides up, baring a long, gaunt leg, and she's aware of his gaze lingering on her exposed skin. Flirtatious, she realises, provocative, although unintentional. And she's hardly a beauty, not like this. Perhaps when she regains some weight…but she's too thin, she knows that, there are too many places where the bones jut out just a little too much.

"You're kind to me," she adds.

"You're a special case," Mr Gold murmurs, and Isabelle smiles a pleased smile. She likes knowing she's special to him, likes it said plain and simple, so she knows where she stands.

She likes the way he looks at her, the way he's looking at her now. Hunger and desire, but something deeper too, something stronger. Something…

Something that could last forever. That should scare her, she thinks. This is new and fragile and she should not be thinking of forevers or happily ever afters. It's too soon for any of that. And yet he looks at her as if he would like to look at her every day for the rest of his life.

Then Mr Gold turns away, finishes packing the soil around his new mint plant, brushes his hands together to free them of soil.

"I dislike having to replace plants," he tells her. "Most of these are hardy enough to last the winter, but sometimes I lose one."

"Tell me about them," she coaxes. "Teach me. You know so much and I…don't."

"Yes, well, you were locked away for ten years," he says. It's a statement of fact, said without any sense that perhaps he shouldn't say it, perhaps she's too fragile. She likes that. Most people are nervous of speaking of it, most people think she doesn't want to be reminded. She doesn't, of course, but that doesn't mean she can ever forget. Mr Gold's prosaic mention of it is easier to bear than Mary Margaret's tentative way of speaking around it, or Emma's desire to keep from talking about it with Isabelle at all.

"I missed a lot," Isabelle nods. "But I'm here now." She reaches out, takes his hand despite his protest that his hands are dirty. "Teach me," she says softly. "Please?"

"If you like," he says, just as quiet as she. There's something else there, hidden beneath the surface of his words, but she can't work out what it is. She flushes, tries to tug her hand from his but he doesn't let her go, and she stills. Caught, but not entirely unwillingly. She could pull away if she wants, but she doesn't want to. She wants…

She licks her lips, sees his gaze drop to her mouth, and her heart is pounding in her chest. She wants to lean towards him, wants to reach out and trace the features of his face. The lines on his forehead and his cheeks, the shape of his nose and his mouth. She wants to tangle her fingers in his hair and hold onto him as he kisses her.

Isabelle isn't brave. There is so much that frightens her, so much that makes her feel weak and scared and small. She is scared of small spaces and loud noises. She's scared of her father and of an evil woman with a painted smile. She's scared of herself, sometimes. So much in the world that she hasn't managed to get used to yet, so much that scares her.

She isn't brave, but she wants to be, and she will start now.

She holds Mr Gold's hand and she shifts closer to him; his other hand goes to her waist, so natural, as if they've done this a hundred times before. He's getting soil on her dress but she doesn't care.

"Belle," he murmurs, "what are you doing?"

"I love when you call me that," she says, and she lifts her free hand to rest on his shoulder. "And I'm…being brave." His mouth curls into a smile at that, some private amusement that she isn't privy to, but she doesn't care. She likes his smile.

"Is that what you call it?" he says. "I think there are other words for it, dearie."

"I think I'm being brave," Isabelle whispers, and she leans closer – slowly, so slowly, but he's leaning towards her as well, and her eyes close as his lips meet hers.

She's kissed boys before, years ago. There had been Harry, and Gabe, and a few others. But that was all years ago, before her incarceration.

Mr Gold is not a boy, and his kiss is not tentative in the way the boys at high school had been. He knows exactly what he is doing. His hand at her waist is a heavy weight, and he clutches her hand tight as he kisses her.

Isabelle can't think, can't concentrate on anything except the feel of it. His lips and his _tongue_ and she presses closer to him, clutches at his shoulder. She digs her fingers in and tastes him and for one long, perfect moment, Isabelle is no longer afraid.

She is kissing this man, and he is kissing her back, and she isn't afraid any longer.

And then something _breaks_ inside her head and Isabelle pulls away from him and tries to breathe. She can't quite manage it, can't force her lungs to inhale, can't combat the pain in her head and the _agony_ wrenching at her heart.

It's pressure like the pressure she's felt before but so much worse, unbearable and crushing, and Isabelle wants to scream from it but she can't _breathe_. There's something clawing at her heart, and she's dimly aware of Mr Gold, can feel his hands on her shoulders. He's clasping her tight, but she can't see him. Everything is dark.

Everything is dark and Isabelle is lost in the darkness. Everything that she is and considers herself to be is being ripped apart. Violently, destructively, it's all being ripped up and it hurts deep down in her bones, deep in her heart.

"Isabelle."

It's her name but it's not, and Isabelle manages to breathe at last, sucks in a great lungful of air, holds it for long moments before releasing it. Another breath, and another, and the pressure in her head is fading now but leaving only chaos behind.

Her heart hurts, and it's an old ache, a familiar one. It's a heartache that she learned to live with, before.

Before. Before means something different now, and she opens her eyes at last. She's lying on the ground, she realises hazily. Warm grass beneath her, blue sky above, and a man leaning over her, fear and panic poorly-concealed on his face.

"Isabelle," he repeats. "Are you alright?"

She looks up at him and knows who he is, knows the shape of his eyes even if the colour of his face is different. She knows him, knows this man kneeling over her. Her mind is broken and she knows who he is.

She scrambles to her feet and she _runs_.


	17. Chapter 17

Title: Of Dreams and Awakenings

Rating: T

Word count: ~51k

Characters: Belle/Isabelle French, Mr Gold/Rumplestiltskin, Mary Margaret, Emma Swan, Archie Hopper, Henry Mills, Regina Mills, Moe French, various other Storybrooke characters.

Pairing: Belle/Rumplstiltskin (Isabelle/Mr Gold)

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Once Upon A Time' does not belong to me.

* * *

It's dark by the time anyone finds her, sitting on a bench by the docks. She'd run for nearly half an hour before she'd stopped, her movements slowed by fatigue and breathlessness. She's been sitting on the bench for a few hours now, growing colder by the minute but totally unable to move.

It's Archie who finds her, who comes to sit next to her on the bench. He doesn't say anything, offers his coat silently, and Isabelle takes it, wraps it around herself and is grateful for the warmth.

She watches the boats bobbing up and down on the water, hugs herself. She can't speak, doesn't know what words would come even if she could manage to form them in her mouth. She feels broken, abused. She feels torn into a thousand pieces and has no idea how to reassemble herself.

She knows her own name, and remembers two lifetimes.

She was locked away for more than ten years. She is not the daughter of a florist. She spent five months in a castle with the most feared being in all the kingdoms.

She knows her own name.

"Let me know when you're ready to go inside," Archie says quietly. "I don't want you to catch a cold."

She wonders who he was, in that other land where she was born and lived and expected to die. She does not know his face, and his name holds no clue for her. Not like Mr Gold.

Gold for the fine thread he spun from straw. She presses her lips together, thinks of what he'd said when she told him that baking helps her to forget. He'd understood, and she hadn't known why. Now she knows.

And she knows that he, too, remembers that other life. He must remember, for he's called her Belle, and nobody has ever abbreviated her name here like that. Izzy, they called her here, before her incarceration began.

She wonders how she came to be here; how this world came to exist. She wonders how long she was in the locked room beneath the hospital, rather than in the locked cell in the tower of the Queen's castle. She remembers ten years; and remembers long years before that, of that other cell.

She needs to know, but the only man who can give her answers is Mr Gold, and she cannot…

"Mr Gold was very worried," Archie tells her then, and her breath catches in her throat. He was worried about her, and she wants to be grateful, because she thinks that must be a sign that he _does_ care, that he hasn't simply been trifling with her. A sign that he does care for her as she still cares for him, no matter what has happened between them, no matter how hard he had pushed her away.

She still cares for him despite what had happened to her _after_ he pushed her away. And he still has the cup. That, she thinks, is a sign. That tells her something, but she's not sure what that something is, can't grasp any of it. She's so confused, so battered. Nothing makes sense, and she doesn't even know where to begin to smooth out the confusion.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

She swallows, shakes her head. She can't talk to Archie about it – she trusts him, but this is not…

This is too much. This is unbelievable. And Archie is her friend, is safety and comfort and a helping hand, but even he cannot believe what she now knows, the things that are now in her head.

It's too much.

"Did he upset you?" Archie asks, gentle but insistent. He's trying to help, trying to get her to open up to him, but Isabelle can't do more than shake her head again. She licks her lips, tastes salt from tears and the spray from the ocean before her.

She never saw the ocean in that other place. There were seas and oceans there, and she read tales and heard stories, but she never saw them. She went from her father's halls to Rumplestiltskin's, and from there straight into the Queen's dark tower.

She has seen little more of this world; she has been captive here, as there. Imprisoned by the same woman, for she knows those eyes now, knows the evil that dwells beneath the painted smile.

She lifts her hands, covers her face. She tries not to cry again, for she's cried too much this evening, feels exhausted and wrung out from it. But her eyes are dry; no more tears come.

"It's okay if you don't want to talk about it right now," says Archie then. "Do you think you feel up to going back to the apartment? You've been out here a long time, Isabelle."

The name is jarring; it is her own, and yet it is not. Belle drops her hands into her lap, glances at him. She finds only concern and understanding on his face, and it's comforting. Her whole existence has been altered, but Archie remains the same.

"I guess so," she whispers. Her throat is dry, and the words are cracked. She coughs, lifts a hand to cover it, rubs her throat. She wishes for water, but she hadn't taken anything to Mr Gold's that afternoon, has nothing but her cardigan with her now.

"We'll get you something to drink when we get there," Archie reassures her. "And do you think you can manage something to eat?"

Isabelle nods, closes her eyes for a moment. "Pasta carbonara," she murmurs. "That's on the menu for tonight."

"Okay," says Archie, and he stands up, holds a hand out for her. She stares for a moment, blank and apprehensive, and then she takes his hand, lets him help her up. She staggers for a moment – she's been still too long and her muscles are on the verge of cramping, but Archie supports her, holds her up until she can stand by herself. "That's good," he murmurs. "My car's not far. Do you think you can walk?"

"Yes," says Belle, and she tries to stand tall, tries to be composed. She can walk, but she hopes it really isn't far. She is tired, so tired, wants to crawl into her bed and sleep the world away.

Perhaps she can; perhaps, when Archie takes her back to the apartment, she can just go into her room and shut the door, and pretend none of this has happened.

Pretend the kiss had never happened, that it hasn't broken whatever magic spell was cast to bring them here and make her forget who she is. She could pretend, perhaps, if she tried hard enough, if she could sleep for a while first.

Except…except she doesn't think she can, she doesn't think she can bury the things that have been unearthed in her mind. She can't forget her own identity, not know she remembers everything.

Not now she remembers _him_.

"Isabelle?"

"Sorry," she says automatically, shaking herself free of the tangled thorns in her mind. "I'm sorry."

"You don't need to apologise," Archie tells her. "Not to me." She nods; that's something he'd said early on, soon after she'd been released. She never has to apologise to him for anything – and she doesn't owe apologies to other people, either. She might want to apologise for all the things she does and how she reacts to things, but she doesn't have to.

It's not her fault. None of it's her fault. Except…except some things are, and Belle feels tears coming again, feels her throat close up, as she thinks of the things she now remembers.

She thinks of that last day in the Dark Castle.

"Come on," says Archie, and he wraps an arm around her, leads her away from the docks. "I'll call Emma and Mary Margaret when we get back," he says as they walk. "They're out looking for you. Mr Gold as well, I think."

"I probably should have told you about that," Isabelle mumbles. "I…he…"

"Isabelle, you don't have to tell me everything," he reassures her. "In fact I hope you don't. I want you to be able to strike out on your own. All I'm concerned about now is what's happened to upset you, and helping you work through it."

Isabelle fights back tears, shakes her head. "It wasn't him," she says wearily. "It wasn't anything he did. It's…me. It's just me." Archie's arm is supportive, warm around her shoulders. His coat is too large on her, hangs down to her ankles, the sleeves covering her hands. She remembers that evening in the rain, in the library, when Mr Gold had given her his coat.

She remembers wanting to kiss him then, but being too afraid.

It was the first time he called her Belle; she wonders now how he'd kept himself away from her, because surely if he loved her he'd want to see her. But he hadn't, and she doesn't know what that means except she thinks he was probably afraid.

He has always been a coward, after all. A coward hiding behind his magic and his tricks and his manic laugh and his spinning wheel. Just a coward.

They reach Archie's car and he helps her in, turns the heating up high as soon as the doors are shut. She's shivering now, cold and tired and feeling immeasurably old, and she closes her eyes as Archie starts the engine and pulls the car away from the kerb. She doesn't want to see anything; she doesn't want to think.

She wants the world to make sense again and she doesn't know what to do.

"Don't think about it right now," Archie murmurs. "You don't have to think about anything right now. You're exhausted. You just need to warm up, eat something, and go to bed."

"Aren't you meant to get me to talk about stuff?" Isabelle murmurs, barely able to summon the energy to form the words. "Isn't that meant to be better for me?"

"Not tonight," says Archie with a soft laugh. "You can barely talk at all. We can meet tomorrow."

"Tomorrow," she repeats. She can't think about tomorrow. Tomorrow is a vast, yawning chasm that will swallow her whole if she thinks about it. Tomorrow she will have to face the world, face _him_, face herself.

She can't think about tomorrow. She wraps Archie's coat tighter about herself, leans her head against the cold window of the car. She opens her eyes, watches the streetlights passing, watches the people moving about the town. They draw closer to the apartment, reach it at last, and Belle can hardly force herself to move but she knows she has to, knows it's only a short walk and a few flights of stairs up to her bedroom.

Ashley's there, waiting outside the apartment, and she opens the car door and holds her arms out to Isabelle.

"I'm glad someone found you," she says, quiet and calm, not showing any anxiety or concern. It's what Isabelle needs, and she tries to smile at Ashley. She wonders where the baby is; inside, she guesses, or with Sean. "Come on," Ashley says, and she helps Isabelle out of the car, holds her when she stumbles. "Granny sent over some soup and sandwiches from the café," she says. "You should eat that and then go to bed."

"I don't…" She wants to say she doesn't understand, wants to say she doesn't want anything. But she has to eat; she knows she has to eat. She can't afford to skip meals.

"I know," says Ashley. "It's alright."

She and Archie help Isabelle inside, and Archie calls the people who are searching for her while Ashley helps Isabelle get into bed and brings her the food Granny sent over.

Belle's asleep before she finishes the soup.


	18. Chapter 18

Title: Of Dreams and Awakenings

Rating: T

Word count: ~51k

Characters: Belle/Isabelle French, Mr Gold/Rumplestiltskin, Mary Margaret, Emma Swan, Archie Hopper, Henry Mills, Regina Mills, Moe French, various other Storybrooke characters.

Pairing: Belle/Rumplstiltskin (Isabelle/Mr Gold)

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Once Upon A Time' does not belong to me.

* * *

Voices wake her, angry voices, pulling her out of blissful unconsciousness and into the harsh waking world. Belle pushes aside her covers, goes to her bedroom door and opens it a little, just enough to hear the words being flung near the front door of the apartment.

"You're not going to see her," Emma is saying, voice carefully controlled so it doesn't rise into a shout although it's clear the urge to yell is there. "I never thought it was a good idea, and now I know it wasn't."

"You're not her keeper, Sheriff Swan."

It's him, he's here, and Belle's heart leaps at that, even as it makes her cringe away from the door. She wants to see him, and yet she doesn't. It's all so complicated now, and it was complicated enough before, when she was simply Isabelle French and her memories were locked away in a cage.

She wonders, briefly, if she's gone mad. Except she knows the taste of madness, had lost a little of her sanity in those long months and years trapped in the Queen's castle. This is not madness; this is truth. She knows it just as she knows the sun rises in the east and sets in the west.

This isn't madness, and he is the only person who has answers for her. She has to talk to him at some point even if just to coax those answers from him.

"No, I'm not, I'm her friend. And as her friend I'm telling you, you're not seeing her!"

"Emma…" Mary Margaret this time, soft and soothing. "Keep your voice down. Both of you. She's still asleep." Isabelle bites her lip gently, wonders whether Mary Margaret is glaring, wonders if she's got her 'teacher' face on. Mary Margaret is stronger than most people realise, more in control than most people know. She will keep Emma and Mr Gold from shouting at each other, at least.

"If she doesn't want to see me, I will respect her wishes," says Mr Gold. There's strain in his voice, but Belle thinks she's the only one to recognise it. Nobody else knows him the way she does, except perhaps Regina. Perhaps the Queen, who has been Rumplestiltskin's enemy for so long, would be able to hear the strain – but Belle thinks not. "But I want to hear that from her. Not from you, Sheriff."

"I'm not letting you _near_ her," snarls Emma, a fierce lioness protecting what she considers hers to protect. "If you think for one _second_ that after whatever you did –"

Belle pulls her bedroom door open, steps out. "It's alright, Emma," she says, and she sounds more subdued than she'd hoped. They're all looking at her, Emma and Mary Margaret and Mr Gold, and she flushes as she realises she's in her pyjamas still, flushes at the look he gives her, just for a moment.

"Isabelle, you don't have to do this," says Emma, stepping towards her, hand outstretched. "Not today, not ever if you don't want to."

"It's alright," Belle repeats. "I want to see him." She catches a flash of something on Mr Gold's face, hidden before she can put a name to it; Emma's scowling, and Mary Margaret is frowning too. They can't understand what she's doing, or why she's doing it.

But they don't know what she knows.

"Isabelle, are you sure?" Mary Margaret asks. "You don't have to do it right now. He can come back when you've had something to eat, got dressed…"

"No," says Isabelle. "Now." She doesn't want him in her bedroom, but there's no other private space here, and she glances around, twists her hands together. "Do you – would you guys mind –"

"I've got to get to work anyway," says Mary Margaret quickly. "Emma, come on."

"I don't think we should –"

"Please, Emma," says Belle. They look at each other for a long moment, and Emma's concern is touching, but Belle thinks she knows what she's doing. Finally Emma sighs, nods. She grabs her jacket from the hook by the door and follows Mary Margaret out of the apartment.

The door closes behind them, and Belle looks at Rumplestiltskin – at Mr Gold – and wonders what she can possibly say. How she can possibly start.

"Miss French," he begins, and Belle shakes her head, holds up a hand.

"Please," she says, "don't." She closes her eyes for a moment, hugs herself. "Please don't call me that," she whispers.

"Forgive me, but it seemed…" He's awkward, and it doesn't suit him, but Belle isn't sure she can find words to reassure him. She opens her eyes, looks at him. He looks frailer than she remembers, somehow. Older. There's the stick, of course, which he didn't have in that other place, but that's not all. She's hurt him – running from him yesterday hurt him, and she can't make that right. She can't take it back.

All she can do is speak the truth now, reveal to him what has been revealed to her. But she can't seem to begin. So much has gone between them, and so much of it hurts, and she doesn't know how to begin.

"It's not my name," she says at last, and Mr Gold frowns, lifts his chin slightly as he looks at her. "You know my name," she says. "Call me by my name, please?"

"I don't quite –"

"_Please_," Belle says, and she steps towards him, shuffles forward in her bare feet and pyjamas that hang off her hips and shoulders even though she's regained a little weight. "Please."

"…Belle?" The word falls from his mouth, full of disbelief and uncertainty, and Belle's breath catches in her throat. She nods, waits for more, and he takes a step towards her, the cane thumping on the floor. "What's going on?" he asks, a murmur, and Belle shrugs her shoulders, drops her arms to her sides.

"I don't know," she says. "I really, really don't know." Her feet are cold; she needs to go and get socks or slippers, but she won't, not now. "Where are we?" she asks, and hates how scared her voice sounds.

"What do you mean?"

"I remember…everything," Belle says, glancing away from him. "I remember the day the Mayor came and put me in the hospital. And I remember the day the Queen took me from the road and put me in her tower."

He inhales, shocked and sharp, and in moments he's right in front of her, the cane discarded and clattering on the floor, his hands tight on her shoulders.

"Belle," he breathes, and there's wonder on his face, wonder and fear, such a strange combination. "How can you possibly remember that?" He's so close she can feel his breath, can see every line and wrinkle on his face. His eyes aren't quite as dark as they were before, and his skin is so much paler, but it is him. It is _him_.

"I don't know," she whispers. "I kissed you and I remembered." There's something in that – she knows the power of kisses – but she can't quite put her finger on it, not with him looking at her like that. As if he wants to hold her close and never let her go, but scared at the same time. This scares him, her remembering. "Rumplestiltskin," she whispers, and he shudders, his mouth moves in silent words. She wonders how long it has been since anyone spoke his name. "Rumplestiltskin," she repeats, just for the pleasure of it. "Where _are_ we?"

"I hardly think that's the important question," he says, and he lifts a hand from her shoulder, traces his fingers across her cheek, her mouth. "_Belle_…" And then he crushes her to him, pulls her so close she can hardly tell where she ends and he begins, holds her so tightly she can barely breathe but she doesn't care. She doesn't _care_, because she's wanted this for so long, for so many years. She's wanted to be in his arms in both the lives she remembers, and she closes her eyes and clings to him.

She doesn't know how much time passes; eventually his grip relaxes, eventually she pulls away a little. He lifts his hands to cup her face, strokes his thumb across her cheekbone.

"Belle," he whispers. "I thought you were _dead_." Belle nods; she knows. The Queen had rejoiced in telling her that her beloved – the creature who had flung her aside – believed she was dead. "I shouldn't have believed her," he goes on. "I should never have…" His hands drop to her waist; he holds her close again, and Belle lifts her arms around his neck, presses her face into his shoulder. "I should have looked for you."

"It's done," she says softly. "I'm here now."

"Yes."

"It's all…jumbled together in my head," she says, trying to explain to him how it feels, what she remembers. "I remember…ten years in the hospital. But it was more than ten years. I mean…I _know_ it was more than that, but it's…it's all…"

"Two sets of memories working against each other," he says, nodding. "And I imagine the reawakening was…traumatic." His fingers dig in to her waist, slip beneath the hem of her pyjama top to touch skin. Belle shivers, and he moves his hands at once. "Forgive me," he murmurs.

"There's nothing to forgive," she says, and she means it. There is nothing to forgive, for she forgave him long ago. She lifts her head, looks at him, sees the anguish hidden behind his eyes and she offers a gentle smile. "I'm here now," she says again. "And you…you're…" Her courage fails her, the insecurities that are ingrained from her existence here stopping the words even as she tries to speak them. You're a man, she wants to say, and you're with me.

"It's a curse," he says after a long moment, and Belle nods. "I imagine that's why…why you remember now." He offers a thin smile, lips pressed together, hiding his own insecurities behind a sardonic expression. "You know what they say about true love's kiss."

"Then you do love me," Belle breathes, hope and love and joy filling up her heart and spilling out. "Still?"

"Always," Rumplestiltskin tells her, and he is brave then, braver than she; he cups her head in his hands and brings his mouth to hers. He kisses her, soft and gentle but _desperate_ at the same time. It's been so long – so many years. So much pain. And he kisses her now as if he's afraid she will disappear. As if he's afraid she'll reject him as he once rejected her.

She doesn't; she presses herself closer to him, closes her eyes and tries to show him how she feels.

They part at last, and with a twist of his mouth that might be a grimace, he bends to retrieve his cane.

"I imagine Sheriff Swan will be returning shortly," he says. "I should…" Leave, he doesn't say, and she doesn't want him to go but forces herself to nod.

"I think Archie will be here soon, as well," she says softly. "I should get dressed." His gaze moves over her, heated and intent, and Belle feels exposed, but not necessarily in a bad way. "I don't want you to go," she admits then, and is rewarded with relief flashing across his expression.

"I have to," he says. "For now." He leans on his cane, both hands on the handle as if to prevent himself from reaching out to her again. "There are things we should talk about," he goes on. "About the curse, for one thing."

"Yeah." Isabelle tugs at the hem of her top, bites her lip for a moment. "I, um…I guess I've got to open up the library today, but it's usually quiet on a Monday."

Mr Gold nods, thoughtful. "I close the shop for an hour at midday," he says. "Shall I bring you something, for lunch?"

Belle smiles, nods. "I'd love that," she says, and Mr Gold gives her one last look, disbelief and awe and fear still, and she knows she needs to ask about that – but later. Not now. It's not important right now. She closes the gap between them, lifts her face to his once more, and his kiss is a promise.

* * *

No update tomorrow night, I'm afraid *ducks* I'm heading to London to see a show. Normal service will resume on Saturday :)


	19. Chapter 19

Title: Of Dreams and Awakenings

Rating: T

Word count: ~51k

Characters: Belle/Isabelle French, Mr Gold/Rumplestiltskin, Mary Margaret, Emma Swan, Archie Hopper, Henry Mills, Regina Mills, Moe French, various other Storybrooke characters.

Pairing: Belle/Rumplstiltskin (Isabelle/Mr Gold)

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Once Upon A Time' does not belong to me.

* * *

"Miss French, what's this I hear about you being late to open the library?"

Isabelle feels a momentary flush of panic, a spreading of ice down her spine, as Regina Mills lets the library door swing shut behind her. The customary panic she feels whenever she comes into contact with the Mayor – but somehow it seems…faded now. Less intense.

She knows the truth now, remembers everything. And she is under Rumplestiltskin's protection; nobody but him has any power over her. He promised that Regina won't get her again, and she believes him – now, more than ever.

"I'm sorry," she says, putting down the book in her hand, gathering together her courage. "I wasn't well. But I'm fine now, and I'm planning on staying open later to make up the hours."

"I'm afraid that's not good enough," says Regina. Her heels clatter on the floor as she approaches; her sneer is vicious. "You're contracted to work certain hours, Miss French, and if you can't work those hours –"

"I'm also allowed sick leave," says Belle, and Regina's brief look of shock is gratifying. Not many people interrupt her, but Belle is being brave. Belle is _Belle_, and she is strong and she will not let this woman scare her any longer. "It's in my contract. Up to two weeks sick leave a year."

Regina recovers swiftly. "Of course," she says. "But you are required to give notice for hours missed."

"Well, I'm sorry," says Belle. She stands up, folds her arms. She remembers how Rumplestiltskin had looked at her earlier, remembers what he'd said. Always. He's always loved her, and that gives her strength. "It won't happen again. And as I said, I'm going to stay open later tonight."

"I'm not sure that's good enough, Miss French," Regina retorts. "We may have to review your employment here." Isabelle can't speak for a moment, outrage and anger and fear drying out her mouth. She remembers long, long years in Regina's castle, locked in a cell. She remembers not having enough to eat, remembers being too hot in summer and so cold in winter she thought her blood would freeze in her veins. She remembers ten years where her only visitor was Mayor Mills, feels once again the fear that the Mayor will fling her back into the hospital and bury the key where nobody could ever find it.

"Ah. Mayor Mills. What an unexpected surprise."

Fear flees with the tap of Mr Gold's cane as he comes across the library towards her. He ignores Regina, comes around the desk and glances Belle over; she smiles, restored, and he gives her a brief, approving nod. He puts a paper bag onto the desk and then he turns to face Regina, offers a politely bland smile.

"Mr Gold," she says, clearly a little shaken, her smile fitting her face badly. "I didn't expect to see you here."

"Well, that's the thing about me, dear," he says. There's malice in his voice, a twisting serpent that's been woken and it should scare Belle – she should be afraid of the darkness in him. But she's never been afraid of him, not even during those days long ago when she and her father had been waiting to see what deal he might offer them. "I like to do the unexpected," he continues.

"So I see," says Regina flatly. "Miss French, I do hope you remember what I said."

Belle lifts her chin, hides her trembling hands. "Oh, I do," she says. "I remember _everything_ you've said." Regina gives her a long, assessing look, but Belle hides herself away, folds herself up in Isabelle French and hides away the daughter of the knight, the housekeeper of the beast. She buries herself in the daughter of a florist and the strength of Mr Gold at her side.

She knows, somehow, that it will not end well if the Queen discovers that she knows.

"Don't let it happen again," Regina snaps at last, and she turns on her heel, leaves at a smart pace. Isabelle stands still until she's gone, until the door is shut and she can see through the windows that the Mayor is far away. Then she collapses, strings cut and mind empty, sits down and covers her face with her hands.

"Belle," he murmurs, and he leans against the desk, puts aside his cane and reaches for her, gently brings her hands away from her face. "What did she mean? What did she say to you?"

"Oh, it…" Belle manages a smile. "It was a while ago. When she gave me this job. She warned me away from you."

Shadows in his eyes and a scowl lingering about his mouth, Rumplestiltskin looks almost more dangerous than she's ever seen him before. "Did she," he says, flat and angry, and Belle takes his hands, lifts one to her mouth and kisses his knuckles – _loves_ that she can do this, loves the freedom to do it.

"It didn't work," she confides, and the darkness leaves him, something softer comes into his expression.

"I can see that," he says. He holds her hands tight, links their fingers together. "Belle," he says, and she smiles. "I still can't believe this," he says, more to himself than her. "The curse was watertight, I know every inch of it. Every loophole. You shouldn't be able to remember."

"You know it," Belle says slowly. "You – you _created_ it?" She tugs her hands from his, stands up and takes a step back. "Rumplestiltskin," she says, and for a moment she can see his other face, see his real face. The dragon hidden behind the gentleman. "This – this whole – where _are_ we? Did you send us all here?"

"No," he says, quick and abrupt, but he isn't looking at her and she knows how to tell when he's not being quite truthful. "No, not me, dearie."

"But you know the curse," she says. "Tell me." He glances at her, jaw tight and eyes narrowed, and Belle steps forward again, stands in front of him and takes his hands. "Please," she says softly, "I have to know."

Mr Gold looks old for a moment, grief-stricken and ancient beyond measure, and she waits. She waits because she knows he will answer her, if she gives him the space to do so.

"I thought you were dead," he says, and she nods. "And I think it sent me a little…mad."

She forces a smile, but the fondness she feels isn't forced at all. "You were always a little mad," she says, and he nods, accepts it. "But you didn't cast the curse?"

"I created it, which is perhaps almost as bad." He sighs, looks down at their joined hands. "The Queen cast the spell, and I suppose I could have stopped her, but I had no reason to."

"What is it? The curse?"

"It's the darkest magic possible," says Mr Gold, and if he regrets creating it, it doesn't show. There's nothing of guilt in him, nothing of remorse. "To leave behind the world we knew, and bring us to one in which nobody could have a happy ending." His lip curls; he shakes his head and pulls his hands from hers. "Nobody here finds their true love," he says. "There are no magic solutions or fairytale endings."

Belle nods slowly, thoughtfully. "I see," she says, and she thinks she does. She thinks she knows the why of it, even if she can't hope to comprehend the how. She suspects, at least, that she knows when he created this curse.

He'd thought she was dead; the Queen had told him she was dead. And he loves her. Loves her always, has always loved her. He'd already lost so much – his son, his wife – and then he'd lost her too.

"When did she do it?" she asks then. There are other questions she would like answers to – why did Regina do it, what drove her to it – but this seems the most important for now. "How long ago? I remember ten years in the hospital…"

Rumplestiltskin bares his teeth, shakes his head. "Longer," he says. "Twenty-eight years." Belle's breath leaves her in a rush, and for a moment she feels dizzy, for a moment she can't comprehend it. Twenty-eight years. Isabelle French's entire life, but she doesn't think it works like that, she doesn't think…

"Time stood still," he continues. "For most of that time, nobody…nothing changed. Ashley Boyd was pregnant for twenty-eight years. David Nolan was in a coma. Mary Margaret Blanchard has taught the same group of children for nearly thirty years. The only person who's ever aged is Henry Mills."

"So what's changed?" Bella asks in a whisper. Something has changed, something must have changed, because David Nolan woke up. Ashley gave birth. Isabelle was discovered and released.

There's a flash of approval on his face, as if he's proud of her deduction, proud that she's realised that something must have changed.

"Emma Swan," he says. "Henry's mother." He pauses, considers, visibly weighing up his options. "What do you know of Snow White?" he asks, and Belle frowns, tries to think. She knows the name, but she can't remember if it's from before or after her imprisonment. After, she thinks – she thinks the Queen spoke of Snow White, but her memories still feel fragmented, the edges sharp and jagged and not fitting together neatly in her mind.

"I…was she the Queen's daughter?" she asks slowly. "Or stepdaughter? I'm not sure."

"Stepdaughter," Mr Gold confirms. "Much-loathed stepdaughter. This," he gestures, "is the Queen's revenge on her." He smiles at her confusion. "I'll explain," he says. "But not here. Too…public." He glances at the large windows, at the door, and Belle nods. They're alone now, but there's too much risk of interruption.

"Later, then," she says, wants a promise from him, wants an assurance that he won't just gloss over it. She needs answers, because she has woken to this world and needs to know the rules that govern it.

"Later," he agrees, and he looks back at her, rises, retrieves his cane. Belle bites her lip for a moment, then presses closer to him, rests her head against his shoulder and feels his arm come to rest around her waist. "Oh, Belle," he murmurs. "I will never let you go again."

"I'm not going to let you," she whispers. "I won't let you be a coward this time."

He doesn't say anything, but his fingers tighten at her waist, and Belle lifts her head, presses a kiss to his jaw. She doesn't want him to regret, doesn't want him to blame himself for believing the Queen's lies, but she can't do anything about it. Not now, not yet. There is still so much they have to talk about, answers they must each be given. Forgiveness to be sought, although she forgave him long ago for his fear. She gives no blame to him for what has happened to her since.

He sighs, lets his cane rest against the desk and lifts his hand to stroke through her hair. "I never thought I would be able to do this," he admits, and Belle nods. She never thought she would have this, in either of her lives. There she had lost him, had made one mistake and lost all hope of him; here she has been too frightened, too bruised and battered to dare ask for what she wants even when she knew he wanted the same.

"But you must have lunch," he says then, and his hands fall away from her; Belle straightens with a sigh. "You need to eat," he says. "You're so thin, love." Her heart swells at the endearment, her smile cannot be contained. He doesn't seem to notice what he's said, and Belle doesn't draw attention to it as he turns to retrieve the paper bag he'd brought with him, begins to unpack it.

For the first time in so long – in months, in years, even – she thinks she might be really and truly happy.


	20. Chapter 20

Title: Of Dreams and Awakenings

Rating: T

Word count: ~51k

Characters: Belle/Isabelle French, Mr Gold/Rumplestiltskin, Mary Margaret, Emma Swan, Archie Hopper, Henry Mills, Regina Mills, Moe French, various other Storybrooke characters.

Pairing: Belle/Rumplstiltskin (Isabelle/Mr Gold)

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Once Upon A Time' does not belong to me.

* * *

Emma and Mary Margaret are waiting for her when she gets back to the apartment that evening. Belle closes the door behind her, takes her time hanging up her coat. She wraps herself up in Isabelle French, cloaking herself in the insecurity and oddity of that life, and gets herself a glass of water before joining them at the table.

"I'm alright," she says quietly. "I'm so sorry I worried you last night. But I'm alright."

Emma and Mary Margaret share a glance; it's clear they've discussed how to approach this, what to say to her.

"Do you want to tell us what happened?" Emma asks, cautious, almost hesitant in a way that's unlike her. It doesn't suit her, doesn't fit right, but she's trying to be sensitive, and Isabelle's touched.

"Nothing happened," she says. "Not really." She sips her water, can't quite look at either of them. She wonders who Mary Margaret is, wonders what her real name is, her real face. She wonders what lies behind the woman she knows.

"Something must have happened," Mary Margaret says, and Isabelle shrugs, glances up at her. "You don't have to tell us," she goes on. "I know you've talked to Archie. But we're concerned about you."

"About you and Mr Gold," Emma adds, and Mary Margaret frowns at her, shakes her head. Emma ignores her, reaches across the table to touch Isabelle's hand. "You seemed happy," she says. "We didn't want to say too much…about who he is."

"I know who he is," says Isabelle, and she pulls her hand away, puts it in her lap. "He really didn't do anything," she says. "It was…I just…" She shrugs. "I didn't handle it, that's all."

"Handle what?" Emma asks. "Did he – did he try anything, Isabelle?"

"Emma," hisses Mary Margaret. "Stop it." Emma's mouth twists in a scowl but she nods, leans back in her chair. Mary Margaret takes over, offers Isabelle a smile. "What Emma means to ask," she says, "is did anything happen that you weren't comfortable with?"

"No. Yes." Isabelle sighs, lifts her hands to cover her face. "Yes, but it was my fault," she says voice muffled. "I was the one to kiss him. Not the other way around."

"Oh!"

"Really?"

Isabelle drops her hands, offers a shy smile. "Yeah," she says. "Really. So you can stop thinking he's taken advantage of me or made me do something I didn't want to do. I was the one to kiss him." Emma's face is a picture, fascination and shock, and Mary Margaret seems no less surprised. Isabelle feels her cheeks heat at the way they're looking at her, and she shrugs her shoulders, glances away.

"Oh my god," Emma says at last. "Seriously?"

"Don't look at me like that," Isabelle begs. "Is it so shocking?"

"Well, no," says Mary Margaret, recovering her diplomacy, reaching out to poke Emma's shoulder. "I guess not. I mean, you like him, so I guess…" She shakes her head a little, but there's a smile hidden in her mouth, her eyes. It's clear she's at least a little reassured by what Isabelle's said.

"I do," says Isabelle. "And…and yes, I did."

"And?" Emma asks, and she's trying to tone down her concern, her need to know what happened. "If he didn't – well –"

"I – I just…couldn't handle it," Isabelle says quickly. It's not the truth, of course. She can't give them the truth, can't offer it to them in any way they could understand. Mary Margaret knows about Henry's theory, Henry's book, and she's sure Emma does too – but they don't believe.

Snow White, she remembers suddenly. Henry thinks Mary Margaret is Snow White. And that means…that means Regina Mills is her step-mother. That means all of this, this whole world, their fake memories and fake lives and the masks they're all wearing – it's all because of whatever happened between Mary Margaret and Regina Mills.

Rumplestiltskin has promised her answers, she reminds herself as she tries not to look too hard at Mary Margaret. He promised, and he always keeps his word.

"I wanted to kiss him," she says, forcing herself back to the present, to be in this moment, "and I did, and I…it was too soon. That's all." Mary Margaret nods, understanding or at least feigning it, but Emma's expression is still sceptical. Isabelle isn't sure what more she can say; she takes another sip of water, holds the glass between her hands. "I pushed myself too far," she murmurs. "That's all."

"Okay," says Mary Margaret. "And you're feeling alright now?"

"Yes," Isabelle nods. "Just fine." It's perhaps an exaggeration – her mind and heart and soul still feel broken, abused. She still cannot make sense of everything, cannot fit the pieces together, but that will take time and answers. But for now she is as fine as she can be, and it's all she can say in answer to Mary Margaret's question.

"And Mr Gold?" Emma presses her, leaning forwards again. "What about him?"

"He…" Isabelle shrugs, finishes her water. "He understood." He'd been hurt, at first – hurt that she'd run from him, but even then she thinks he had been trying to understand despite his offended pride. And then, of course, the hurt had been eclipsed by the revelation that she _knew_, that she is Belle once more.

Emma sighs, but doesn't say anything. Isabelle looks at her, sees the frustration and the confusion. Emma hates not understanding things, but Isabelle can't explain this, not clearly.

Love, she's found, rarely lends itself to simple explanations.

She can't explain it, and so she offers a distraction. "The Mayor came to see me at work today," she says, and Emma grimaces. "She was…threatening me, saying if I couldn't work my contracted hours she'd have to review my contract."

"You were sick!" Mary Margaret protests. "You get sick pay, don't you?"

"Apparently not if I don't notify her before I'm absent," says Isabelle with a sigh. "But you know she's just waiting for an excuse." Waiting for a reason to fire Isabell, to have her declared unfit – in more ways than one. She can't help a shiver, wraps her arms around herself.

"I wish I knew why she has it in for you," says Emma, frustrated and disgusted, the white knight who needs to know the why of everything. "Nothing you could have done to her could possible merit everything she's done to you."

Isabelle glances at Mary Margaret, just quickly, as she wonders what Snow White did to the Queen.

"She's vindictive," Mary Margaret says, oblivious. "I don't know, there's just something in her that doesn't…forgive."

Emma's nodding. "I know, I get that – but surely something must have started it?" She looks at Isabelle, who shrugs. She knows why she was imprisoned in that other world, and can only assume she went from one captivity straight into another. Time stood still, Rumplestiltskin had said – so she was in the hospital for twenty-eight years, even though her memories try to tell her otherwise.

The Queen had taken her from the town close to the Dark Castle because she might be useful against Rumplestiltskin; she had been imprisoned in this world, she imagined, for much the same reason.

"I don't think it really matters," she says. "I'm sure she thinks she has her reasons." She shrugs, gets up and goes to refill her glass. "It doesn't matter," she says, glancing back at them. "She – she can't get me again."

Mary Margaret's smile is brilliant, and Emma's expression is no less pleased. This is perhaps the first time she's said such a thing, the first time she's believed it enough to say it.

Regina Mills will not get her again. Isabelle has protectors – Emma, Archie – who will prevent it happening, if Regina should decide to try.

And Belle has the fiercest protector of all, the most powerful man in the world who _loves her_. He loves her and he always has. Whatever else there is between them, whatever regrets and sorrows and heartbreaks, the love is there. It is a warmth, a flame in her heart, a suit of armour against the Queen's barbs.

Rumplestiltskin, that creature of legend, the strange man she had grown to know over her months in his service. He loves her, and Belle will never let them be parted again.

"I need to eat," she says, changing the subject. "I, uh…I'm back so late, I'm not sure I feel like cooking. We could order in?"

"Will you eat it?" Emma asks, direct, and Isabelle nods. "Are you sure?"

"Yes," says Isabelle firmly, goes to the drawer where they keep the take-out menus and brings a handful to the table. "I'm sure. I'll eat a proper meal, I promise."

"If this is the influence he's having on you," says Mary Margaret, sudden and quiet and _fierce_, "I'm glad."

Isabelle flushes, shrugs her shoulders. She can't answer, doesn't know whether it's Mr Gold or the insistent merging of two selves, of two sets of memories, that is causing her to feel so…secure.

That's it, she realises, she feels secure in a way she hasn't felt once in the three months since she was released from the hospital, or the ten years before, or even during childhood and adolescence. She wonders if that's the effect of the curse, if the stripping of all happy endings had caused Isabelle French to be insecure, uncertain, unhappy. Perhaps unstable – perhaps her father and the Mayor are right, perhaps she was actually mentally ill at one point.

Too many questions, and she can't go to Mr Gold tonight to seek answers. They'd agreed on that whilst eating lunch at the library, agreed that she must stay in the apartment and reassure her friends, keep up the pretence that she is only Isabelle French.

Because the Queen will be watching, and she must not find out.

"Chinese," suggests Emma, rifling through the menus. "Mary Margaret?"

"We had Chinese last time," points out Mary Margaret, and she smiles at Isabelle. "What about pizza?"

"Either sounds good," says Isabelle, her decision-making used up by the suggestion that they order take-out rather than sticking to her carefully-planned menu. "I don't mind, really."

Mary Margaret nods, her smile not faltering for a moment. "You liked the Chinese we had, didn't you?" she says. "We'll have that again."

"But you want pizza," Isabelle protests half-heartedly. Emma glances up from the menus, lifts an eyebrow, and Mary Margaret shakes her head.

"I don't mind," she says. "Come on, come and look at the menu with me and we can work out what you want."


	21. Chapter 21

Title: Of Dreams and Awakenings

Rating: T

Word count: ~51k

Characters: Belle/Isabelle French, Mr Gold/Rumplestiltskin, Mary Margaret, Emma Swan, Archie Hopper, Henry Mills, Regina Mills, Moe French, various other Storybrooke characters.

Pairing: Belle/Rumplstiltskin (Isabelle/Mr Gold)

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Once Upon A Time' does not belong to me.

* * *

Belle can't sleep.

It isn't a problem she often has; usually sleep comes easily, and for the rare nights it doesn't, Archie has given her a few sleeping pills. But the sleeping pills tend to make it harder to wake up from nightmares, and usually Isabelle prefers not sleeping to not being able to wake up.

It's different tonight; tonight she feels filled to the brim, mind and body buzzing with her new knowledge, her new self-awareness. She's spent the past hour tossing about in the bed, sometimes too hot and sometimes too cold, never quite comfortable enough to relax.

She rolls over onto her back, stares up at the ceiling through the darkness. She can't sleep and she doesn't want to, not really. She wants…

She wants what she can't have, at least not right now. She wants Rumplestiltskin, and he is in his house across town, far too far for her to be thinking of getting up in the middle of the night and going to see him.

He'll be asleep anyway, Belle tells herself as she slides from the bed and goes to the window. She opens the curtains, presses her forehead to cool glass. There's a streetlight close, and she can see the street below, bathed in orange light. Emma's car, a bike chained to the bike stand outside the apartment block. And…

She knows the other car outside, knows who it belongs to. She can't see if there's anyone in it, but he has to be there. He can walk, of course, but not far or without pain. He'll be in the car, watching over her, making sure she's safe.

She should think it's creepy; she should feel a little disgusted, perhaps. He's older than she is, and sitting in his car outside the apartment…it ought to be creepy, and it would be if she didn't want to see him so badly.

Belle retreats from the window, shuts the curtains again and hurries into clothes. Jeans, bra, shirt, socks, keys safely in her pocket. She doesn't put on her shoes, holds them in her hand as she eases her bedroom door open and tiptoes across the apartment to the front door. Once she's in the hallway she puts her shoes on, and then scurries down the stairs, out of the building and towards the car.

She surprises him, but the surprise melts into pleasure and he opens the car door, brings his good leg out so he's facing her more.

"You know," she says, "I think this could be considered stalking."

"It's only stalking if you're not pleased to see me," Mr Gold counters, and Belle can't suppress a grin as she looks down at him. "You should be asleep," he says.

"So should you," she says, and she wraps her arms around herself, wishes she'd thought to bring a jacket. It's past midnight and not warm, but she'd been so intent on her goal – and on being quiet – that the temperature had escaped her notice.

"Get in, you silly girl," he says, an admonishment, and she goes around the car, slides into the passenger seat, closes the door behind her. With the doors shut the car is warm, and he reaches for her, rubs her cold fingers between his hands. "You should be asleep," he says again, a murmur, but it's clear he doesn't want her to be asleep. He wants her here, with him, just as she wants to be here.

"I couldn't," she says. "There's too much going on in my head." He nods, waits for her to continue, and Belle tries to decide what to say – tries to pull a thread from the tangle in her mind, to begin to unravel it all. "Mary Margaret is Snow White," she says at last, and Rumplestiltskin tilts his head, smiles a faint smile.

"Guess, or knowledge?" he asks.

"A little of both," says Belle. "I remember the Queen talking about Snow White, when I was her prisoner. And Henry – he has this book…"

"Ah, yes," says Rumplestiltskin, all smug satisfaction, all grinning pleasure at something he's had a hand in, and Belle wonders exactly how Henry got that book, exactly what planted the suggestion in his mind that the book was real. "Young Henry is quite insightful," he says. "Yes, Miss Blanchard is indeed the fair Snow White. And Emma Swan is her daughter."

"Emma – but – " Belle falters, frowns thoughtfully. "This sounds like a very long story," she says. "Start at the beginning, please."

Amusement lurks behind his eyes, around the corners of his mouth. "A very long story," he agrees. "Far too long for the middle of the night, love."

"I'm not going anywhere," Belle says softly. "I think…I think I need to know. Please tell me, Rumplestiltskin?"

It's perhaps his name that does it, or perhaps the moment when he realises he's still holding her hand. Something removes his opposition, though, and Belle settles more comfortably into her seat and watches his face as he tells her a very long, rather complicated story.

It begins with a lamed father and the son he lost through claiming power to end the ogre wars. But then it also begins with a girl, and a lover, and a magic-wielding mother. It ends with another mother, and a beast trapped beneath a castle, and a deposed queen intent on having her revenge on a child who never meant any harm.

Rumplestiltskin's own part in it is less clear than the Queen's, and Snow White's. He doesn't reveal to her the how of the curse's creation, or whether he knew what would happen after – whether he knew he would end up in this world with the rest of them, but with the full knowledge of who he is.

He doesn't talk about any of that until the end of the story, when Belle squeezes his hand and tries to speak but finds words dead in her mouth.

"I lost my son," he says, and this is the story he never told her, the story he'd promised her that day long ago when he set her free from the Dark Castle. "It – it was my _fault_. All I knew was that he'd gone to a place without magic, and so I…"

"You tried to find a way to get here too," says Belle softly.

"Of course I did. Every minute of my life from the moment he was gone…every minute was spent trying to get to him, to get him back." He closes his eyes, leans his head back against the head rest. "Until you. You made me forget, for a while. And I loved you so much. And once I'd lost you, I…I twisted the curse. I wanted to find Bae but I didn't want anyone else to have the happiness that had been denied to me." He glances at her now, smiles a bitter smile. "You would have liked him," he says. "Sometimes I would dream that I had you both back and we could be a family."

Belle can't speak, can't find the right words. She cannot give him forgiveness for creating the curse, because it isn't hers to give; and since he did not cast it, he is owed no blame for its execution.

"And since then," she says at last, slow and careful, "time has been…frozen?"

"Yes." He looks away from her, out of the windscreen. "Or perhaps you could say time has been…looped. Every day is different, but nothing fundamentally alters. People have not aged, or died, or been born – unless they try to leave Storybrooke." His smile is grim, perhaps a little bitter. "Nobody can leave Storybrooke, you see," he says to her. "People who try to leave either have a change of heart and decide to stay, or they…disappear."

"Disappear," Belle repeats. "Die?"

"Some of them do indeed die," he says, and his mouth is a twisting scowl. "But people do die, dearie."

"I just meant…" She trails off, pulls her hand from his and shakes her head. "I don't know what I meant. Did you design the curse that way?"

"Some of the parameters were…flexible," Rumplestiltskin admits, and his fingers flutter in the air for a moment, and for a moment she is back in his castle and laughing at the dark jokes he sometimes makes, always accompanied by a flourish of his hands. "So much of magic is about intent, you understand, and the Queen's intent was…" The fingers curl into a fist, and Belle almost flinches. "Control. Revenge, of course, but…control."

"But you remember," says Belle. "And now I do too. How is that control?"

"I designed it, of course I made sure I would remember who I am," he says, looking back at her now, teeth bared in what's not quite a grin. "And as for you…I can't explain that. Not yet. I have theories, but if true love's kiss was enough to break the spell, Miss Blanchard and Mr Nolan would long since have awoken to themselves."

"So why am I different?" Belle asks, voice small and scared, and Rumplestiltskin's eyes narrow a little. He reaches a hand out to her, strokes one finger across her jaw, over her lips.

"You've always been different," he says. "Does it matter why?" Belle shakes her head, feels his fingers fall away from her mouth, licks her lips nervously. His eyes are dark and fixed upon her mouth, and Belle almost wants to shiver. He touches her so much easier than he ever did before, in that other world, and the more he touches her, the more she wants.

"I…" The sound fades and Belle bites her lip, glances away from him. She's nervous, but she's not sure why.

Rumplestiltskin looks at her, and shakes his head. A faint smile lingers about his mouth, and it's the softer smile she remembers from the castle and from her interactions with Mr Gold over the past few weeks, not the manic grin he shows when tricking and dealing.

Then the smile fades, and his gaze slips away from her. "Tell me about what happened to you," he requests, and Belle shivers, hugs herself. He says nothing more, nothing to convince or persuade her – but he answered her questions, and she knows he didn't lie to her. He deserves the same honesty from her.

"I left the castle," she says slowly, "and…I'd reached the village. I went to the inn, I was…shaken. And then I left, the next day. I meant to go back to my father. But she must have been waiting for me. She took me from the road." That dark carriage and the knights in black, the painted red smile that hadn't even pretended to be friendly this time. One of the knights had hit her on the head, knocked her unconscious, and when she'd woken up, it was to find herself in a cold, dark cell.

"I don't know how long I was there," she says at last. She stares blindly out of the window, can't bear to look at him, to see his expression as he hears what happened to her. What he sent her to, for if he hadn't sent her away, the Queen would not have been able to take her. "Years, I think. I didn't have any way to measure time, but there were several winters, and several summers. It was so hot in the summer. I had a window, but it was small and high up on the wall. I couldn't see out of it. But in winter it let in the snow…it was so cold then." She closes her eyes, feels that cold again, an ache deep down in her bones. "I didn't have any blankets, or…just the dress I'd been wearing. And that got older and dirtier and…" She's shivering, she realises, but it feels distant, unreal.

"Did she hurt you?" Rumplestiltskin asks, a dangerous murmur, and Belle shakes her head.

"No," she says. "Not after the first few days." The first few days…there had been pain, beyond anything she'd ever experienced, as the Queen tried to drag answers from her. She'd asked again and again about Rumplestiltskin, about his weaknesses, about his habits and patterns of behaviour. Belle hadn't answered – or rather, she had answered, but with things that the Queen didn't want or need to know. He likes his tea with cream, not milk. He's bad-tempered in the morning. Things that mattered to her, but not to the Queen.

After a few days, or perhaps a few weeks, the Queen had given up. Then she'd been left alone almost entirely. Food had appeared in her cell, usually once a day but sometimes less often. There was a bucket in the corner that emptied itself when she used it. Another bucket of water that was never emptied, no matter how much she drank. Enough to make sure she wouldn't die, but not enough to keep her from getting thin or from growing ill.

"But at first," he whispers. "She hurt you."

Belle shrugs her shoulders, glances at him, sees the pain he's feeling, the agony he's trying to hide. "Yes," she says; she won't lie to him, gives him the truth as he has always given it to her. "Yes, she hurt me. But so did you."

He flinches, and Belle almost – _almost_ – regrets her words. But not quite; they need this out in the open if they're to move forwards.

She needs to hear him apologise. Just once, that's all she needs. She doesn't need him to beg for forgiveness, she just needs to hear him say the words, just once, and mean them.

Just once.

"Belle," he says, and she looks at him and waits. "Belle, I – I'm sorry." Something in her eases, and she almost misses his next words. "I'm a coward, I've always been a coward, and I let that – I let you go, and it was one of the worst mistakes I've ever made. Can you – can you possibly forgive me? If I hadn't thrown you out, she would never have –"

"Of course I forgive you," she says, cutting across his flow of words. "I forgave you long ago." And she twists in her seat, curses the gear stick between them but manages to get close enough to him. He's staring at her in wonder, and Belle smiles as she balances herself with her hands on his shoulders. His hands come to rest at her waist as she brings her mouth to his.


	22. Chapter 22

Title: Of Dreams and Awakenings

Rating: T

Word count: ~51k

Characters: Belle/Isabelle French, Mr Gold/Rumplestiltskin, Mary Margaret, Emma Swan, Archie Hopper, Henry Mills, Regina Mills, Moe French, various other Storybrooke characters.

Pairing: Belle/Rumplstiltskin (Isabelle/Mr Gold)

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Once Upon A Time' does not belong to me.

* * *

Belle smiles when she sees Henry waiting outside Archie's office; she joins him on the sofa in the waiting area, leans in and nudges his shoulder with hers.

"Hey you," she says. "What're you still doing here?"

"I have to wait for my mom to pick me up," says Henry with a long-suffering sigh. "And she's late."

"Well, I'm early," Belle says. "And I wanted to talk to you, actually." She glances up, makes sure they're alone. "About your book."

Henry's look is wary. "What about it?" he asks, and Belle wonders who else knows about Henry's theory – wonders who has dismissed it. Then she realises she doesn't need to wonder; Henry is here, after all. He's in therapy, and there's only one woman who could arrange that. His mother knows his theory, and that…could be very dangerous.

Belle tries to decide what to say, weighs her words carefully. Finally she finds the right words, the right phrasing, and she smiles down at Henry.

"So the story isn't over," she says. "My story, I mean." Henry's frowning, confused, and Belle's smile widens into a grin. "I told you Beauty would have stayed," she says. "If he'd let her. Well…the story wasn't over. Your book doesn't have all the endings."

Henry narrows his eyes, frowns up at her. "What do you mean?" he asks. He's sceptical, hesitant, and it's clear he's been rebuffed before.

"I mean," says Belle, "my name is Belle. And my father was Sir Maurice." His mouth drops open, his eyes widen, and Belle nods her head. "I remember, Henry," she says. "I remember who I am."

"But – but how?" he asks, and he glances around as she had a few minutes before, looks at Archie's closed office door and then towards the building's front door. Belle looks there too, makes sure Regina Mills isn't visible. "I don't understand," Henry says then. "How do you remember? The curse –"

"All curses can be broken," Belle interrupts him. "But…no. This doesn't mean the curse is broken." She has that on good authority – Rumplestiltskin has investigated it thoroughly. Nobody else shows any sign of remembering, nor does the fabric of the curse itself seem to be disintegrating. Magic, he told her, works differently in this world but there is enough of it there for someone like him to feel it. He hadn't expected it, but magic is here and he, the creator of the curse, can feel its composition, its strengths and weaknesses.

The curse is not breaking because she kissed Mr Gold; only Emma can break it, and she is already doing so, although she doesn't know it.

"Do you know about true love's kiss?" she asks Henry, and he nods, thoughtful.

"Yes," he says. "I thought maybe when Mr Nolan woke up, and he and Mary Margaret kissed, they might remember then. But they didn't." He swings his legs a little, glances up at her again. "Did you find your true love?" he asks.

"Yes," says Belle, and she can't help smiling again. Yes, she has found her true love, and it's been two days since they kissed and her heart and body sing with the happiness she has discovered. "Yes," she says again. "And…and it made me remember." Her smile fades a little; the moment of remembrance is still painful, still full of sharp, jagged edges in her mind. Things are settling, a little, but there is still so much that hurts to think of – so much she can't make sense of yet.

"Who?" Henry asks excitedly. "Who was it? Does he remember too? Maybe it _does_ mean the curse is breaking!"

"No, Henry," Belle says; she hates to crush his excitement, his enthusiasm, but false hope is crueller. "I'm sorry, but this – me – it doesn't mean the curse is breaking any faster." It is breaking – Rumplestiltskin had told her that – but not because of her, or because of their kiss. It's breaking, slowly, because of Emma. "You know your mom – your real mom – is the only person who can do that," she says.

"Did you know about it?" Henry asks her. "In the Enchanted Forest – did you know Snow White and Prince Charming?" Belle shakes her head. She won't tell Henry about her knowledge of his adopted mother, the Queen; it would only hurt him. "Then how do you know all about the curse?"

"I…" Belle hesitates. Rumplestiltskin hadn't told her not to talk of his involvement, but somehow she feels it would be a bad idea, to reveal all his secrets to Regina's son. "Do you mind if I don't tell you that?" she asks. "It's not really my secret, and I…I haven't talked to him about talking to you."

"You won't even tell me who he is?" Henry's deflating, his happiness ebbing away as he realises she can't, won't, explain how she knows about the curse. He wants to talk about it, that's clear; Emma knows, and Mary Margaret, but neither of them believe him. Belle does, and she can see how much that means to Henry. To know there is another person who knows, who believes, but not to know who he is…that must be difficult for the boy.

But it's not her secret; and she cannot reveal Rumplestiltskin's secrets to Henry. He is a good child, Emma's child, but he is Regina's son and he lives with her. He would not mean to, but some secret might slip from his mouth or be betrayed by his actions.

"I'll talk to him about it," she promised. "I will. But do you see why I can't just tell you?"

Henry scowls. "Because of my mom," he says. "I get it. But I wouldn't say anything – you know I wouldn't."

"You wouldn't mean to," says Belle gently. "But we can't risk it, Henry."

"You knew her," Henry says, barely a murmur. "Didn't you? My mom – the evil queen." Belle turns her face away from him, shivers. "I know she locked you up here," Henry goes on. "She told me she did it for your protection, but I know she was lying. Did she lock you up there, as well?"

"Henry," says Belle, her tone curt although she doesn't mean it to be, "don't ask me about that. No matter what else she's done, she's your mom here. You live with her. I know you care about her at least a little bit. So don't ask me."

Henry doesn't say anything, and Belle risks a glance back at him. He's frowning still, but thoughtful again, and when he meets her eyes he seems to have accepted what she's said. She tries to smile, but it doesn't quite fit on her face, feels oddly stilted, so she lets the smile fade.

"I wanted you to know that I know," she says. "Because I know how it feels to be alone."

Henry nods. "Yeah," he says. "I mean, Emma and Mary Margaret know, and Dr Hopper…but they don't believe me. But you do? You really believe?"

"I don't _believe_," says Belle, "I _know_. I remember my life there, Henry. It's not a case of belief. I know it's true." Henry grins, nods again, and Belle's smile comes easier now. "And things are changing," she says. "You know they are. The curse may not be broken yet, but there are cracks."

"I know," says Henry. "It's Emma – my real mom. She's changing things. Like…like the clock started working when she decided to stay, and Mr Nolan woke up, and you came out of the hospital."

"Exactly," says Belle with a nod. "Things are changing. It's only a matter of time."

"I thought once she was here, things would happen quicker," Henry mumbles. "But it's been months now and…things are just as bad as ever."

"Oh, don't say that," Belle entreats. "Not for me, they're not. Look at all the changes that have happened for me. Emma got me out of the hospital, and now I have my real memories back…that's a lot of change, Henry. And sometimes...sometimes change is slow. Sometimes that's just the way it is. But it only means it'll be stronger in the end."

"I guess," he sighs. "I just…I want everyone to remember. To have their happy endings again."

"Don't give up hope, Henry," Belle says. "Emma is changing things, all the time, in lots of little ways. It'll build up. The curse _is_ going to break. It was designed to be broken, you know, by Emma – and now is the right time for it."

Henry starts to say something else but the door to the office opens, revealing Archie, frowning a little when he sees Henry sitting next to Belle.

"Henry," he says. "Is your mother not here yet?" He checks his watch, and the frown deepens. "She's not usually late, is she?"

"No," confirms Henry. "But I guess everything has a first time, right?"

Archie's frown fades into a smile, a nod. "Right," he says. "Are you alright waiting out here? Do you have something to read, or…"

"I have spellings to learn for school," Henry says, reaching down to his rucksack and pulling out a rather tattered piece of paper. "I'll be fine. And I promise I won't go before she gets here." A flash of a grin, a secret shared between them that Belle isn't party to, but she doesn't mind. There are things Belle tells Archie that she doesn't tell anyone else; that's his role, after all.

"Alright," Archie says. "Are you ready, Isabelle?"

"Sure," says Belle. She has to wrap herself up in Isabelle now, has to tuck Belle away and concentrate just on the looped, faked memories of the past twenty-eight years, the lifetime she has lived or remembers living as Isabelle French.

She must, if not bury the memories of her true self, at least disguise them in the life given to her by the curse.

"Thank you," says Henry. "For…telling me."

Isabelle nods, smiles. "Of course," she says. "I'll see you soon, Henry." She stands up, moves towards Archie's office and then pauses, glances back. "You probably shouldn't tell your mom we were talking," she says. "She's not exactly my biggest fan."

Henry rolls his eyes but nods. "I won't," he says, a promise that she knows he'll keep. Henry Mills, son of Emma Swan, grandchild to Snow White. He knows the value of a promise, and he will keep it.

She wonders, just for a moment, what Rumplestiltskin thinks of the young prince. He hadn't really talked about Henry – they've had other things to talk about, things more immediate and more intimate. She thinks, somehow, that Rumplestiltskin would like Henry.

"Isabelle?" says Archie expectantly, and Isabelle smiles, steps past him into the office, takes her accustomed seat. Archie closes the door, goes to his own chair, offers her a smile. "How are you today, Isabelle?"

"Not too bad, today," says Isabelle.


	23. Chapter 23

Title: Of Dreams and Awakenings

Rating: T

Word count: ~51k

Characters: Belle/Isabelle French, Mr Gold/Rumplestiltskin, Mary Margaret, Emma Swan, Archie Hopper, Henry Mills, Regina Mills, Moe French, various other Storybrooke characters.

Pairing: Belle/Rumplstiltskin (Isabelle/Mr Gold)

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Once Upon A Time' does not belong to me.

* * *

He's waiting for her when she walks up the driveway to his house, leaning against the doorframe, cane in hand. Belle hurries towards him, greets him with a smile, _revels_ in the kiss he gives her so easily.

"Hello," she murmurs, when at last they part. "You're happy to see me."

"I'm not unhappy," he says, and Belle laughs, shakes her head at him. "Do you have time to stay for supper, or are you expected back?"

"I told them I'd be here until late," says Belle, catches a glimpse of approval in his eyes as he shuts the front door behind her, ushers her through to the kitchen. "How was your day?" she asks, taking a seat at the kitchen table.

"Oh, more or less as usual," says Mr Gold; he moves around the kitchen, pulling out everything he'll need to make supper for them. "And yours, love?"

Love. He's taken to calling her that, a pet name that's hers and only hers. Other people are 'dear', or 'dearie', but she is love. She is _his_ love. It makes Belle feel indescribably happy, somehow, that he's comfortable calling her that.

"Not bad," she says. "I had a session with Archie after work. Henry was there, his mother was late picking him up. So we talked for a while."

"Carefully, I hope," murmurs Rumplestiltskin, passing her by and brushing his fingertips over her shoulder.

"You weren't mentioned," Belle assures him, "by either name. And Henry knows it's important that the Queen doesn't know about me."

"Not until the right moment, at least," he says, and his expression is all cunning and mischief, pure Rumplestiltskin, and she hides a fond smile. "She knows that I know – I'm afraid I had to let that slip in a deal some time ago – but you…well. I did promise I'd keep you safe."

"You promised she wouldn't get me," says Belle, and something inside her is sharp and icy at the thought of it even now. "That's not quite the same thing."

"Yes, it is." Hard and uncompromising, and he comes to her, stands beside her and cups her cheek with his hand. "Do you believe me?" A moment, and he's hopeful but resigned, expecting that she doesn't believe him, doesn't trust him yet.

But she does, and she smiles.

"I do," she says. "Of course I do." Rumplestiltskin's smile is brittle, but pleased. He cannot comprehend why she trusts him, she thinks, but is happy she does. "But what do you mean by the right moment?"

His hand slides from her cheek; he goes back to preparing their supper. "Not something that we need to worry about right now," he says evasively, and Belle knows him well enough to know she won't get an answer now, but she can't stifle her frustrated sigh. It makes him smile a little as he glances at her, amusement flitting across his face but chased by regret, by sorrow, and the smile fades away. "Allow me a little time to enjoy this," he murmurs, and Belle can't meet his eyes suddenly.

"You felt time passing," she says at last. "All those twenty-eight years. Didn't you?"

"Yes."

Belle closes her eyes, shakes her head. She can't imagine it. It's hard enough for her to comprehend now, with two timelines in her head and neither fitting neatly with the other. She can't imagine how he lived like that, aware of the passage of time and aware of how it didn't pass.

"Don't think about it," he advises her. She opens her eyes again, watches as he puts a pan on the stove, drips oil in to heat. "It's not worth it. I couldn't explain it to you anyway, and you'll never experience it yourself."

"Because things are changing," Belle murmurs. Emma is changing things, the white knight working for good even though she doesn't know it. Snow White and Prince James, and everyone else…none of them know, and true love's kiss isn't enough to break the curse for any of them.

If only it could be that simple.

"Is your memory feeling more solid?" he asks her then, and Belle shrugs, rises and goes to stand next to him, takes the knife and the vegetables and begins to chop them.

"A little," she says. "But it's…it feels a little like I'm two people, and it's…not comfortable." She thinks of her childhood, of both childhoods. She lacked a mother in both, and her father…her father had done his best. Some things were unaltered by the curse, but some things are so different.

She remembers high school and she remembers the ogre wars encroaching on her village. She remembers orderlies injecting her with sedatives and she remembers Rumplestiltskin giving her a red rose. Things rub up against each other in her mind that don't belong, but it feels a little easier to sort through them now, to mark out what is Belle and what is Isabelle.

"Is this what will happen to the others?" she asks him. "When the curse breaks."

"No." He's silent for a moment, perhaps concentrating on the cooking or perhaps deciding what to say. Belle waits, finishes chopping a pepper and he takes it from her, gathers the pieces in his hands and drops them into the pan. The pieces hiss as they hit the hot oil, and he stirs absently. "For a while, perhaps," he concedes then. "But once we're all back where we belong, the memories of this place will fade. It will be like a dream."

"What about Emma and Henry?" Belle presses him, and he raises an eyebrow, fondly exasperated. Belle smiles, shrugs a shoulder, knows she has more questions than he could possibly answer, knows she's expecting answers from him that he may not have.

"Not for them," he says. "But that's not a blessing."

"And what about my memories?" she asks, and she takes the paper bag of mushrooms he holds out, spills them onto her chopping board and begins to quarter them. "Will they fade?"

"I don't know." He hates admitting it, scowls as he allows the words to be said, his expression dark and irritated.

"I'm sorry," Belle offers after a moment. "I just…I'm trying to understand."

He shakes his head, banishes the darkness, lifts a hand to tuck her hair behind her ear. "Don't apologise," he says. "I owe you far more than answers." Belle doesn't say anything, turns her face into his touch and wonders…

She wonders many things. She wants many things. But he pulls his hand away and goes to the fridge, and Belle presses her lips together and concentrates on chopping the mushrooms.

Back where we belong, she thinks suddenly. Does that mean they will be returned to the place where they were, when the curse was cast? But that would mean the Queen's castle for her, and the prison cell for him, and she cannot bear the thought of being parted from him once more, or of being a prisoner again. So she keeps the question locked away inside her heart, does not allow herself to ask it.

She doesn't think he would answer this question anyway. Rumplestiltskin does not lie – he spins the truth, but never tells falsehoods. Silence would be his answer, she thinks, and that would perhaps be just as painful as a lie would be.

He takes the mushrooms and gives her several chicken breasts to slice into thin strips, and they are silent for a while as they prepare the meal together. Finally Belle speaks, forces lightness and cheerfulness into her voice and forces darkness from her mind.

"You couldn't cook, before," she says. "Or did you pretend you couldn't?"

"I learned here," he says, and he seems to feel the same as she, that the heavy thoughts of the future need to be banished, at least for now. "I cooked…before. Long, long ago." In the years before the curse, the years before his son left, but Belle won't speak of that, not now. "But no," he continues, "in the Dark Castle I had no need of it. Magic fulfilled many purposes, before you came."

"Doesn't all magic come with a price?" she asks, teasing a little. "Maybe that's why you wanted me. Maybe it was costing too much to eat."

"Oh, that's precisely why," he says, straight-faced, and Belle laughs as she goes to wash her hands. "I should have made that clear from the beginning, my interest in you has always been entirely culinary." She's still laughing, but her laughter fades at the look on his face, that look that makes heat curl in her belly. Her cheeks warm, and she turns away, goes to the cupboard to fetch plates and tries to force her blush away.

"Well," she says, "at least in this world you didn't win me in a deal. Although you did beat up my father." She glances at him as she lays the table. "Why was that? I know he stole from you, but…"

Rumplestiltskin sighs, turns the stove off and gives the contents of the pan one final stir. "He stole from me," he says, the words crisp, almost spat out. He doesn't want to talk about this, warns her off with his tone and his body language, and Belle hesitates. She doesn't want to spoil their evening, not when she has to go back to the apartment in just a few short hours. She doesn't want to ruin their time together with whatever dark cause he had for beating her father with a cane.

She goes to him, wraps her arms around his neck and coaxes him into looking at her. "I don't blame you," she tells him. "Whatever it was, I don't blame you."

Rumplestiltskin closes his eyes, touches their foreheads together. His breath is warm on her face.

"I thought he had caused your death," he mutters. "The Queen…she told me…lies. All lies, but I was a fool." His mouth curves in a bitter smile. "An empty-hearted fool. And then she told him exactly what to steal to hurt me."

"What could he possibly have stolen to hurt you that much?" Belle asks in a whisper. Then the answer comes to her; it's obvious now, obvious when she thinks how the sight of it had stirred the memories buried beneath the surface of her mind.

The cup.

The cup she had chipped so long ago on that first morning in the Dark Castle, the cup that's sitting in the other room right now, displayed in the glass-fronted cabinet.

She wants to ask how it's here – how something from that other world, their true world, can possibly be here. How it can exist here when she has lived most of the past twenty-eight years in a locked cell, stuck in time. She had never seen the cup before the other day, in this world.

She wants to ask, but this isn't the right moment. Instead she tightens her arms around his neck, presses herself close to him, kisses him gently.

It's benediction and forgiveness, it's love and understanding, and he makes a sound almost like a sob as his arms slide around her waist and he returns her kiss. Her lips part; his tongue flickers out to taste her. Belle thinks she could stay like this forever.

"I love you," she murmurs when they part. "I love you no matter what you've done."

"Don't leave me," he begs, and it's so out of character for him but there's something broken in him that wasn't broken when she was his housekeeper in the Dark Castle. Or rather, something new that's broken. There was pain before, deep and dark and hidden away inside him. Belle remembers the clothing belonging to his son. But this is new, this is different, and it makes her heart ache.

"I won't," she promises. "Not ever."

And she means it, although perhaps it's rash to promise it. But Rumplestiltskin seems relieved, cloaks himself in the surety of the promise, and he kisses her again.


	24. Chapter 24

Title: Of Dreams and Awakenings

Rating: T

Word count: ~51k

Characters: Belle/Isabelle French, Mr Gold/Rumplestiltskin, Mary Margaret, Emma Swan, Archie Hopper, Henry Mills, Regina Mills, Moe French, various other Storybrooke characters.

Pairing: Belle/Rumplstiltskin (Isabelle/Mr Gold)

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Once Upon A Time' does not belong to me.

* * *

Belle hums as she wanders through the library, tidying and dusting the shelves. It's been a week since her memories returned, a week spent adjusting to the awkward fit of two lives in her head – a week spent snatching precious moments with Rumplestiltskin. Several times he's brought her lunch to the library, and they've eaten together. Sometimes they've only had a few minutes during the day, sometimes they've had whole evenings together, Rumplestiltskin cooking for her in his home.

Several times he's seemed to be on the verge of asking her to stay, and Belle isn't sure what she'll answer if he does ask. She wants to stay, but there's part of her that's a little afraid still.

But he hasn't asked yet, so she doesn't need to have an answer.

Life is good, and even Emma has backed off a little, seems to have accepted that no matter what she feels, Isabelle wants Mr Gold in her life, and nothing can change that.

"Miss French?"

Belle grips her duster tight, feels a familiar dread and fear, feels ice down her spine and weight in her stomach. She steps out from the stacks, looks to the library doors. Regina Mills stands there, crisp and pristine and _evil_, and for a moment Belle can see her other face, can see the elaborate dresses and hairstyles of Queen Regina. The moment passes as Belle sees the Mayor's companions.

Orderlies.

Fear is a paralytic, and Belle can't move, grasps her duster tight and tries desperately not to panic, because panic is what Regina wants, panic will give her cause and justification, and –

Belle clears her throat. "Can I help you?" she asks, and it's a croak, a whisper.

"I'm here to help you, dear," says the Mayor, sickly sweet smile and knives behind her eyes. "I've been hearing some very troubling reports of your behaviour. I think it's in your best interests that you go back the hospital for a while so we can get you a proper, independent assessment."

"I'm not sick," Belle says, but it's weak and she has nothing to fight this woman with. "I don't need to go to the hospital. Dr Hopper has assessed me and the judge –"

"Judges look at the available evidence, Miss French," says Regina condescendingly. "He's been presented with fresh evidence, and he agrees with me that your behaviour lately has been alarming."

"Alarming," Belle echoes. "What behaviour?"

"Among other things, your association with Mr Gold." She's relishing this, _revelling_ in it, this opportunity to tear down Rumplestiltskin, to hurt him again. But Regina doesn't know that Belle knows, and that's a weapon, she realises. That's a defence. She has something to fight with, and Belle lifts her chin, controls her tremors.

"I didn't know that being friends with someone was considered a symptom of mental illness," she says.

"Oh, but you're not just friends, and that's what's so worrying," says Regina. "He's a dangerous man, Miss French, and far too old for you."

"What are you really worried about?" Belle asks softly. Regina frowns, startled, and Belle clutches her duster and moves her other hand to her back pocket, to the cell phone she keeps there. Emma's number is on speed dial; she presses the buttons without looking, without letting Regina see what she's doing. She would call Rumplestiltskin, but he's at the pawn shop and she doesn't have that number in her phone. She'll put it there – it'll be the first thing she asks him, when she sees him next. "Are you worried that he'll try to take all this away from you?" she asks, and she gestures with her hand, waves the duster to indicate the room, the building, the town.

"What are you talking about?" Regina demands.

"You know exactly what I'm talking about," says Belle. She is Belle, and she is brave; she faced the beast in his castle and spent years as the Queen's prisoner, and she is braver than Regina Mills. "You know _exactly_ what I mean," she says. "Your Majesty."

There's shock on Regina's face, and Belle is allowed a moment to cherish it. Wide eyes and open mouth, her composure shaken and Belle knows Rumplestiltskin wanted to wait for the right moment, but sometimes moments cannot be chosen. Sometimes they happen, and this moment has happened because Belle needed a weapon against Regina, against the orderlies standing behind her waiting for their orders.

"What did you say?" Regina says at last, and she's overcoming the shock. "I see I was right about you – delusions are a serious symptom of – "

"You heard me," says Belle quietly. "You're worried he's going to trample over your precious little world and take all your power away." Regina's floundering, her footing unsure; Belle's unnerved her, but she knows it will be a short-lived victory. Already Regina is gesturing at the orderlies, speechless but her orders clear, and Belle takes a step back, glances around desperately. She hopes Emma's picked up her phone, hopes she's heard that Regina is here and is on her way, but she can't count on it.

If she runs…if she runs, that will only give Regina more ammunition, more cause to lock her up and throw away the key. No, not throw it away, because she has Emma and she has Archie and she has –

And he's there. Belle gasps, almost collapses from the relief of it, has to reach out and steady herself against the nearest shelf. Regina turns to see what's caused it, and the orderlies stop moving, uncertain.

"You," snarls Regina. "Mr Gold, this is none of your business. You don't want to –"

"I don't want to what, dearie?" says Mr Gold, mild and pleasant except for the look in his eye, the bite to his tone. He looks at Belle, and she can't speak, can't move, can't do anything but look back at him. He seems to accept whatever he sees, turns his gaze to the orderlies and there's a sneer on his lips now. "You two should leave," he says. "Now." They don't move, and he looks back at Regina. There's fire in him, the caged beast roaring, and Belle hopes Regina's afraid. "If you don't mind, dearie," he says. "Tell them to leave. Please."

Regina almost shudders, but she nods, waves a hand at the two men. "Go," she snaps. "You're done here."

"But you said she – "

"Out!" Regina orders, and they go. Belle feels a little easier when they are gone, when the door has swung firmly shut behind them. Still, Rumplestiltskin is too far away, and the Queen is still standing between them. Regina is still facing him, her posture rigid, and Belle can only imagine her expression. "What is going on here?" she demands, and his smile is twisted and dark, grimly promising.

"I think you're perfectly aware, your Majesty," he says. And Regina turns then, anger and rage and terrifying fierceness in her eyes. But Belle isn't afraid; he is here, and he will keep her from harm.

"You," Regina snarls. "How do you _remember_?"

"Ah, now, I think you won't be speaking to her again," says Rumplestiltskin. He walks past Regina, stick thumping the floor firmly, brushes against her so she has to step aside. It's deliberate, it's a power play, and Belle remains silent. She doesn't think she could speak anyway, doesn't think she can even stand without support. But she puts her hand into her back pocket, brings out her phone and makes sure the call is over. They don't need Emma to hear any of this, if she's still on the line.

Regina looks like she's waiting for something, and when Rumplestiltskin reaches Belle's side he speaks again.

"Please," he says, and Regina's jaw is tight, her eyes are dangerous, but she gives one brief, curt nod. "In fact," Rumplestiltskin continues, "let's be a little more specific, shall we? You will not speak to her, or try to put her back into the hospital, or in any way work to remove her freedom. You will in not harm her in any way. Physically, mentally, or emotionally. Please."

Please. Such a simple word, but it has power, Belle can see. In some way it gives him power over her, and he's being specific in how he uses it – but then, he's always been so careful in his deals, always twisted everything to his own advantage whilst making sure those on the other end of the deal have no loophole to exploit.

"Are we clear, your Majesty?" Rumplestiltskin asks, tilting his head slightly, and Regina nods. She doesn't speak; perhaps she can't. Perhaps, in the face of his power, even she is afraid of him. "Then I think we're finished here."

Belle watches as Regina, rigid with anger, spins around and storms from the library. She slams the door open, but it closes slowly behind her, shutting at last with a soft click. Belle drops her phone, drops the duster, flings herself at Rumplestiltskin and his arms are open, he welcomes her and holds her close.

"It's alright," he murmurs, and a sob catches in her throat. "It's alright, love, she can't harm you now."

"She – she was going to put me back there," Belle says, a pitiful moan, and she can almost feel the bare walls of her cell, can almost smell the antiseptic. Now that Regina is gone she can give in to the fear and it's a great darkness, choking and strangling, and only Rumplestiltskin's arms around her keep her tethered to reality.

"I know, love," he says, soothing her, soft and gentle in a way he so rarely is, and never with anyone else. He holds her tight, one arm around her waist and his other hand buried in her hair. She's shaking, her eyes squeezed shut, and she presses her face into his shoulder. "She won't get you," he promises. "She'll never hurt you again."

"I can't – I can't go back there!" Belle cries, and she can't stop shaking, wishes she could just _stop shaking_.

"You won't. Never again, Belle."

She wants to believe him – she _does_ believe him – but the terror is still there, the panic, and her breathing is too fast, she knows she needs to calm herself down or end up having a full-blown panic attack.

In her mind she can hear Archie, in her mind he reminds her how to breathe. He reminds her to count, and Belle forces herself to listen, forces herself to inhale and count, exhale and count. Rumplestiltskin catches on, helps her to count, strokes a hand through her hair and sways her gently.

"What the hell happened here?"

It's Emma, she's finally arrived – she did pick up Belle's call for help, although she's arrived too late to do anything but pick up the pieces. Belle lifts her head from Rumplestiltskin's shoulder but doesn't look at Emma yet. She looks at him and nods, and he leans down, presses a kiss to her forehead.

"Sheriff Swan," he says then, "Miss French will be filing a restraining order against the Mayor. As soon as possible."

"The Mayor – Isabelle, are you alright?" Emma demands, crossing the space between them. She halts an arm's reach away, glances from Belle to Rumplestiltskin, and she's suspicious, wary, but less than before, Belle thinks.

"No," says Belle quite truthfully. "But I think I will be."


	25. Chapter 25

Title: Of Dreams and Awakenings

Rating: T

Word count: ~51k

Characters: Belle/Isabelle French, Mr Gold/Rumplestiltskin, Mary Margaret, Emma Swan, Archie Hopper, Henry Mills, Regina Mills, Moe French, various other Storybrooke characters.

Pairing: Belle/Rumplstiltskin (Isabelle/Mr Gold)

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Once Upon A Time' does not belong to me.

* * *

"What – what's going to happen now?" Belle asks. She's curled up on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, cradling a cup of hot chocolate between her hands. She managed to get through the rest of the day, mostly because Rumplestiltskin hadn't left her alone in the library for a minute, and both Emma and Mary Margaret had arrived at the end of the day to escort her home.

Belle had gone with them, but only long enough to pack an overnight bag. Mr Gold had waited in his car outside the apartment, and driven her to his home without comment. He cooked her a meal, and kept conversation away from the events of the day, and afterwards he'd sent her to sit down while he tidied the kitchen.

Now he's seated beside her, a hand resting on her knee through the blanket. He's found ways to touch her all day – a brush of hands when they pass something to each other, a finger sliding across her cheek when he passes by, a hand smoothing across her hair. They've kissed twice, once at the library, and once here at his home. He'd caught her by surprise before supper, pressed her up against the counter in the kitchen and kissed her as if he needed her more than oxygen.

"This evening?" he asks, soft and gentle as he is sometimes when they're alone together, "or after today?"

"After today," she clarifies. She knows what will happen this evening, although she's sure – she's _sure_ that he has no idea. He'll have a guest room, and he'll show her to it when it's time to retire, and Belle knows what she'll do then. She'll get changed, get into pyjamas and brush her teeth, comb her hair. And then she'll go to him.

"The restraining order has been filed," he tells her. "Legally, she can't come near you again."

"But she knows I know," says Belle, and she's been trying to make her fear go away all day, tried to make it disappear into nothingness. She's tried to comfort herself with Rumplestiltskin's presence, his protection, but the fear has been gnawing at her insides, making her feel…

"She can't touch you now," Rumplestiltskin promises, fierce and dark and his hand tightens on her knee. "She's bound by magic, and she knows by now not to work against that."

"Because you said please."

"A condition of telling her how to work the curse," he nods. "If I ask her for something, or to do something, and say please, she must obey. She has no choice. The compulsion is absolute."

Belle nods slowly, sips her hot chocolate. "She must hate that," she observes, and Rumplestiltskin gives a small, bitter laugh.

"I don't much care whether she likes it or not," he says. "You're safe. That's all that matters now. I should have done it weeks ago." He's in danger of heading into guilt, and Belle refuses to allow it. She reaches to put her mug down on the floor, shuffles closer to him and leans against his shoulder. His arm comes around her automatically, pulling her closer.

"I'm going to be alright," she murmurs. "_We're_ going to be alright."

"So sure, love?"

"Yes," says Belle. "Why, don't you believe me?" She lifts her head and she's so close to him it doesn't even take conscious thought to kiss him, to press her mouth to his. It's gentle, this kiss, almost chaste, and it's sweet. It's trusting.

It becomes more, though – it becomes heat and passion, and her lips part for his tongue and she lifts a hand to tangle in his hair. His hand slides up her knee, pushes aside the blanket and comes to rest at her hip. He moves from her lips, presses open-mouthed kisses along her jaw, down her throat, and Belle closes her eyes, tilts her head back.

"Tell me this is alright," he murmurs between kisses. He lifts his other hand up, rests it on her shoulder. "Belle…"

"Don't stop," she manages, and she lets him stretch her out on the couch, pulls him down with her. It must be awkward for his bad leg, but he doesn't seem pained; he rests his weight on his arms and kisses her again. Belle arches up into him, wants to feel more of him – and he presses against her, not quite allowing his weight to rest on her but enough for her to _feel_ him.

She's lost in him, but she doesn't care. Her world has narrowed to this moment, to this space, to the way he makes her feel, and it's the most wonderful feeling in the world.

She slides her hands under his waistcoat, pulls buttons free from buttonholes, and he's startled enough to stop kissing her. He stares down at her, and Belle hesitates, bites her lip.

"Belle," he murmurs, and he leans back, sits up straight and shakes his head. "You're not ready for this."

"I've wanted this for years," she says honestly. "I'm not…I'm not a child. I'm not going to break. I know what I want – I _want_ this." She sits up, and tugs gently at his waistcoat. "I want you," she says, and refuses to admit she's blushing. She wants this, but she is after all fairly innocent. She's not been with a man in either world, although here she's had a little more exposure to what it means.

Rumplestiltskin seems to understand; he gives a slow nod, and shrugs his waistcoat off. "If you're sure," he says, voice low and rough, a man barely on the edge of control. It should frighten her, but she's not afraid – she's _excited_. Rumplestiltskin out of control is wild and dangerous, but that's a different thing entirely to this. This is…this is them, together at last, and she knows he would rather kill himself than hurt her again.

"I'm sure," she says. "But…upstairs?"

He breathes for a moment, some emotion that she can't name flashes across his face, and then he nods again.

"Upstairs," he agrees. He rises carefully, steps back and retrieves his cane while Belle stands and folds the blanket over the back of the couch. They look at each other then, and she isn't sure what he's feeling but she's oddly shy, oddly nervous, and she wonders now if this is the right thing.

Then he stretches his hand out for her, and smiles, and she knows it is.

They go upstairs, and he leads her to his bedroom. Belle glances around, still shy, unsure what to do with herself, but Rumplestiltskin takes her hands and draws her gently to the bed, sits beside her and smoothes her hair away from her face.

"Are you sure?" he asks her, and Belle nods at once.

"I'm sure," she says. "But I…I've never…"

He nods, smiles faintly. "It's been many years for me," he says. "You will tell me if…if you change your mind, or you become uncomfortable?" She nods again, but he watches her so seriously that she knows he needs more.

"I will," she says. "I promise." She twists around, lifts her knee onto the bed so she can face him, brings her hands to rest on his shoulders and smiles at him. "Kiss me again," she says, and he obeys, lowers his head and kisses her. It reassures her even as it rekindles the desire she'd felt downstairs, and she clings to him, presses close. In moments she's reclining on the bed and he stretches out beside her, his hand a weight on her hip as they kiss.

Then his fingers slide beneath the hem of her shirt to touch skin, and she gasps. He stills, but doesn't move his hand away; he watches her, and Belle reaches to kiss him again.

"It's alright," she murmurs. "I want you to touch me."

"Belle," he says, and his smile is crooked, almost pained. "You have no idea how I…" But he kisses her, and his hand slides a little higher, his fingers tracing patterns on her skin. Belle hums into his mouth, lifts a hand to stroke down his arm, and decides he should remove his shirt. She fumbles with his buttons, but he distracts her then, presses kisses across her throat, dips his head down to the curve of her breast above her shirt – and his hand is warm and gentle but he's _touching her breast_ and she had some boyfriends in high school, she's not a complete innocent, but somehow this is nothing like she's ever felt before.

"Is this alright?" he murmurs against her skin, and Belle nods, reaches for her own buttons this time. Rumplestiltskin pulls back, enough for her to take off her shirt, leaving just camisole and bra, and she shivers at the look in his eyes.

"I've dreamed of this for so long," he says, hands ghosting up her arms, across her bared skin. "Oh my Belle."

"Tell me," she whispers, and his gaze darkens for a moment, he glances away from her and shakes his head slightly. "Tell me what you dreamed," she says, and strokes a hand down his cheek. "I used to lie awake in my bed at night, in your castle, and wonder what this would be like." She's blushing as she says it, but it's encouragement and Rumplestiltskin makes a sound, comes close again and kisses her once more. Lips and tongues and his hands seem to be everywhere, and Belle feels like her skin is all that holds her together.

Desire burns hot inside her, and he tugs her camisole over her head, mutters a curse when he can't easily get her bra off. She lifts herself up, reaches back and unhooks it, lets him pull it away and her cheeks burn but she's not going to be ashamed. She's not going to be ashamed of this, ever.

He pushes her back down onto the bed, lowers his mouth to her breast and swirls his tongue around her nipple. Belle can't breathe, lifts a hand to hold him to her, and she feels his chuckle more than hears it.

"Like that, love?"

"Don't you dare stop," she commands, and he laughs but his hand is at her other breast and he rolls her nipple between his fingers. Belle arches up into his touch, wonders how she has gone this long without feeling this.

Her whole life; two lives. And she has found Rumplestiltskin in both of them, has found the man she loves.

He moves away then and she makes a frustrated sound, but he's unbuttoning his shirt, removing his clothing, and she waits for him, watches as a little at a time he is revealed to her. He seems shy now – he can't quite meet her eyes – and she knows he has never thought of himself as handsome.

Even with his other face – even with the odd-coloured skin and the strange texture of it, even with dark eyes and slightly pointed teeth – Belle has always thought him handsome. It was one of the first things she'd thought, that day so many years ago now when he appeared in her father's halls and offered salvation in return for her servitude.

"I love you," she whispers, hoping it's enough to soothe him, and he returns to her, trails a hand across her stomach and flicks open the button of her trousers.

"And I you," he says tenderly. "You're still alright?" Her heart swells; she knows he feels this as much as she, she knows he _wants_ this as much as she does, and yet he still asks that. If she says no, if she says that it's too much, he will stop without question or complaint.

"You're too far away," she says in answer, and runs her fingers up his chest, through sparse hair, scrapes a nail across his nipple and he hisses. She hesitates for a moment, but it was a good sound, a pleased sound, so she keeps touching him, keeps exploring the lines and curves of him.

"I love you," she says again, and he kisses her, long and leisurely, as if they have all the time in the world for this.

And they do, she thinks. They have all the time in the world.


	26. Chapter 26

Title: Of Dreams and Awakenings

Rating: T

Word count: ~51k

Characters: Belle/Isabelle French, Mr Gold/Rumplestiltskin, Mary Margaret, Emma Swan, Archie Hopper, Henry Mills, Regina Mills, Moe French, various other Storybrooke characters.

Pairing: Belle/Rumplstiltskin (Isabelle/Mr Gold)

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Once Upon A Time' does not belong to me.

* * *

"So how are you feeling today?" Archie asks her, and Belle smiles.

"Actually, pretty good," she says. "I think things are…really coming together." The library, her friends, her whole _life_ seems to be filling her with happiness, slowly working to numb the memories of her incarceration. The memories will never fade – she was a prisoner for far too long for the memories ever to fade completely. She will probably always have things that make her nervous or uncomfortable.

But things are better.

"The library's really working well," she says. "People are really glad it's open again, and since…since the restraining order, I haven't had to deal with the Mayor." Emma and Rumplestiltskin between them had made sure the restraining order was filed properly, swiftly, and without objection. Regina Mills can't come within a hundred feet of her now, and even without that, she has Rumplestiltskin's protection.

She is beginning to feel safe again.

"And how are things going with Mr Gold?" Archie inquires. "Still going alright?" Unlike Emma and Mary Margaret, Archie has never expressed any concern or worry over her relationship with the most feared man in town. He may feel it, but outwardly he has supported her, and Belle appreciates it.

"Great," she says. "Things are…going great." It's been three weeks since that night in his home, that night when they'd…The night they'd both been brave. She's spent most of her free time with him since then, stayed more nights than not in his bed. She's even started leaving some of her clothes there, at first in a bag and then in the drawer he cleared out for her, and part of his wardrobe. There's a collection of her toiletries in his bathroom, too.

It's too soon to move in – far too soon – but they can't be private in the apartment, there are too many other people in and out. Emma and Mary Margaret, of course, and Henry's there as much as he can be, as is David Nolan. No, his house is a far better place to be by themselves, to be alone, and they can only really _be_ themselves when it's just them.

In other places – the library, the apartment, Granny's café and even here in Archie's office – Belle has to cloak herself in Isabelle, has to force her mind to work through the two sets of memories and not say anything that would cause any suspicion. Nobody except Henry believes about the curse, and Belle isn't going to jeopardise her life by saying anything that might give people cause to doubt her sanity.

"I know what people think of him," she says then. "But I…"

"Isabelle," says Archie softly, "I don't care what other people think of him. I care about what you think. And I've seen a remarkable transformation in you since you began this relationship." Belle nods slowly. "You've managed to work, and you're going out more," Archie goes on. "And you said the nightmares aren't as frequent?"

"I think once a week or so, now," says Belle. She'd had a nightmare a few nights ago, had woken up screaming, but she'd woken up in Rumplestiltskin's arms, her ears filled with his soft murmurs, his hands stroking across her skin to remind her of where she was, who she was with.

It had been easier to bear, with him, and there are fewer of those nights. With safety seems to come peace of mind, and although her nightmares are a mixture of things now – injections and the Queen's magic and long years of isolation all muddled together in her mind – it is enough, for now, to know that there are more nights without nightmares than with them.

"So you see, from my perspective, he seems to be helping you a great deal," Archie tells her. "I really don't mind what other people think. You feel safe with him, and he has gone out of his way to make sure you _stay_ safe." He smiles, and Belle smiles uncertainly back. "You don't need to justify your feelings to me," he reminds her. "And I hope you know I wouldn't dream of interfering with your relationship – unless it becomes harmful to you, in which case we'd discuss it the way we discuss everything else."

"It won't," says Belle with certainty. "He…I can't explain it, Doctor Hopper. But he…cares a lot about me, and I…" She trails off, lowers her gaze to her hands twisting together in her lap. She loves him, but she can't say that to Archie, not yet. It's too soon for anybody else to know, because everybody else thinks she's Isabelle French and that this is a new relationship.

"I'm glad," Archie murmurs. "You deserve to be happy, Isabelle."

"I…yes," says Isabelle. "I do. I deserve it." She closes her eyes, thinks about everything that's changed over the past few months. "I still wish I knew why," she says, keeps her eyes closed as she speaks. "Emma and Mary Margaret think the Mayor's vindictive, that she's just…evil. But there must have been a reason to have me declared insane."

"Perhaps there was," says Archie, and she can tell he doesn't think there was; she knows he thinks Regina Mill did an illegal, evil act in having Isabelle French committed to the hospital. "I don't think any of us will ever know why she did what she did. Is it something you think about often?"

"Not often," says Belle, opening her eyes again. "Not any more. But sometimes."

"Try not to dwell on it," Archie advises her. "As I said, I don't think we can find any answers." He pulls out a handkerchief, takes off his glasses to clean them. "I have looked," he says. "I've spent quite a long time going through the hospital records – the physical, paper records. I've found bits and pieces but nothing going far enough back. I am sorry."

"You don't need to apologise," says Belle. "You've done so much for me, Doctor Hopper."

"Archie," he says with a smile, replacing his glasses. "Now, tell me your plans for the rest of the week."

Half an hour later Belle leaves Archie's office, steps out into bright sunshine and has to squint as her eyes adjust. When she can finally see properly again, she smiles; Rumplestiltskin is waiting for her, sitting on the bench outside the building reading a newspaper, ever-so-casual except there's no other reason for him to be sitting there right now.

"You didn't have to wait for me," she says, and she sits on the bench next to him, lifts her face to the sky and revels in the warmth of the sun. He folds up his newspaper, puts it on his other side, and he doesn't quite reach to take her hand, but their hands brush and she knows the sentiment is there.

"I know," he says. Belle nods, glances sidelong at him. He didn't have to, but he did. It's true of so many things he does for her. "Did you have a good session?"

"Yes," she says. "I think…I think maybe soon I won't need to come so often." She's stunned even as she voices the thought, surprised that the thought of coming less often doesn't terrify her. She certainly isn't ready to stop coming, and neither she nor Archie will suggest she is, but…perhaps they could go to fortnightly, soon. She'll probably wait until Archie suggests it, but it's good that she can think about it, she knows.

"There's no rush," he says quietly. "Take your time, love."

She knows he's right; the curse will be broken, eventually, but there's still time before that happens, and her mental health is not something she can hurry with. But knowing he supports her means more than she can say, and she reaches for his hand, squeezes it once and then releases it. He doesn't like being affectionate in public, doesn't like gestures that might make people stare or whisper, but he doesn't push her away when she initiates something like that.

He will never push her away, she knows. He's lost too much already. He lost her by pushing her away, although she played her own part in that tragedy, and she knows it's useless to think about it now.

He lost his son, too, and she knows the guilt of it eats him up. It has been so long – more years than she knows, she's sure, because Rumplestiltskin was myth when she persuaded her father to call for him when the ogre wars threatened their village – and yet every day, every minute, he misses his son.

If Baelfire is in this world, Rumplestiltskin has not found him yet. But Belle believes in miracles, now. She believes that Rumplestiltskin will find his lost son, some day. She doesn't really believe in happy endings, not anymore, but that's not quite the same thing as believing that father and son will be reunited. She's sure there will be blame, and angry words, and she's sure that Rumplestiltskin will do what he always does and lash out.

But they'll find each other, one day.

"What are you thinking?" he asks her, and Belle smiles, shrugs her shoulders. She won't tell him her thoughts, because she knows he's almost given up hope now. She knows there's part of him that no longer believes Baelfire is anywhere to be found in this world, because it took Rumplestiltskin so long to follow that Baelfire might be…

Many things may have happened to his son, and Belle won't remind him of the possibilities.

"Nothing terribly important," she says. "I was thinking of cooking this evening."

"I'm sure my taste buds will recover eventually," he says, mischievous behind feigned solemnity, and Belle doesn't take offence, laughs at his teasing. "Are you staying tonight?" he asks then, and she nods once more.

"If you're not tired of me," she says. The look he gives her is wry, amused, and she leans into him, nudges his shoulder with her own. "Well, it could happen," she says, straight-faced. "I mean, some day I'm sure I'll stop baking so much, and you know you're only interested in me for that."

"Of course," he says. "Perhaps we can make a deal? You'll continue to bake for me, and I…will never get tired of you."

"Doesn't sound like much of a deal," Belle murmurs. She can't look away from him, caught in the sincerity he's exuding, the love revealed in every aspect of his face. "Seems like I'm getting the better side of it."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that, love," says Rumplestiltskin with a smile; Belle blushes, and he lifts a hand, strokes a finger across the curve of her lip. "I wouldn't say that at all." He withdraws, turns to pick up his cane and the newspaper, rises gingerly to his feet. She knows him well enough now to know that it's a bad day for his leg; he's in pain, but he won't show it. "Shall we?" he says, holding out a hand to help her up.

Belle nods, takes his hand, laughs happily when he lifts it to press a kiss to her knuckles.

"We shall," she says. "You didn't walk here, though?"

"It's a lovely day," he says, and Belle shakes her head, rolls her eyes. No wonder his leg's hurting, she thinks, but she won't say it. She slips her arm through his, a steady presence if he needs to lean on her, and he looks down at her for a moment, a strange look on his face, as if he can't quite believe that she's real.

"Home," she says firmly. "And I'll cook. You can sit and mock me."

"I wouldn't dream of it, dearie," he says, but the disbelief is gone, replaced by something happier. "I wouldn't dream of it."

* * *

The end.

Thank you everyone who's read and reviewed. I hope you've enjoyed reading as much as I enjoyed writing and exploring these characters. Yes, this is the end. No, there isn't going to be any more (although I never rule out anything, so there may be a one-shot or so in this 'verse in the future). Seriously, thank you to everyone who's reviewed, I've been so pleased to see it's been so well-received!

Many thanks to my beta-reader pinkfairy727 for hand-holding and proof-reading, as well as everything else.

I am working on another Rumplestiltskin/Belle fic, but it's looking like it's going to be looooong, and it won't get posted until it's finished. So watch this space, I guess? :)


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